


More Than He Deserves

by kayisdreaming



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU fun, Angst, M/M, assassin!john, but some really cute stuff too, lots and lots of angst, somewhere in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-26 13:52:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisdreaming/pseuds/kayisdreaming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is one of Moriarty's best assassins. When a job needs to be done, John is the one most capable of accomplishing it. It has been his duty for as long as he can remember, and his loyalty knows no bounds. So why is it, when he's given the name of Sherlock Holmes, his loyalty wavers?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Characters are slightly younger than they are in canon. Just to make this a bit easier to work with.  
> Most of this should be easy to get an idea on (like it's suggested), but if there's something you absolutely don't understand, feel free to ask.  
> As always, comments are highly appreciated.

John sighed, falling back into his chair. The only thing that was really his, that no one else would use (at least when he was here). The only thing that he could ever really _have._ The only thing they _let_ him have. But it was fine. He had to keep reminding himself that. It was fine. It was normal, for people like him. As far as normal ever went.

He rubbed his face, exhausted. He wasn’t as young as he used to be. As spry or as prepared to go straight from one thing to another. By no means was he old (he had honestly forgotten how young or how old, really). But things like this wore on the body, on the spirit. Taking more out of both than it really should.

“Ah, Johnny Boy, home already?”

With a sigh, John looked over his shoulder, past the chair. With a particularly maniacal expression on his face, Jim Moriarty walked into the room. He busied himself, pulling off his blood-stained gloves and apron that he used for particularly gruesome torture. For people who Sebastian playfully referred to as “Squirters”—those who would start saying everything the same moment that the blood loss became noticeable and less. . . visually appealing.

They said you could see it in people. See what it took to get someone to talk. To get them to spill everything. What buttons to press, what veins to cut. John could never tell, not even with all the time he had been here. To him, they just looked like people. People who had moved through the world, made their own connections, had their own families, hobbies, lives. People who would enter that room, experience the most painful hours of their lives, and come out in a black bag to be promptly disposed of.

Luckily, John never had to take care of any of that. It wasn’t his job to torture people (sometimes Sebastian complained about that—that John got the easier job while the sniper had to sit through the torture and assist Jim. He loathed it, but he would never admit that in any earshot of Jim. Not even Sebastian would get away with that). Nor was it his job to dispose of the bodies (he wasn’t entirely sure what they did with them, actually). No, his job was different. Important. Vital to Jim and his work.

The heels of Jim’s shoes clicked on the floor as he moved to face his lackey. Passing the chair, he spun on his heels to look down at John. The sly smile on his face quickly faded when he saw John’s shirt. It was still crimson, unchanged from his last job. A sneer formed on Jim’s lips.

“That had _best_ not be your blood, Watson.” He said, voice cold as he violently took hold of John’s chin between his fingers. He forced John to look up at him.

“No.” John said, swallowing. It was vital not to bleed at any job. Not to leave any trace. To make it seem like it was a ghost, a enigma, or something impossible that did it. At the very least, a wandering prostitute who did the job (in a way, John’s mind reminded him, he pretty much _was_ one). Nothing that would connect back to Jim, to the constantly growing network that he had been working on for years.

John couldn’t count the number of times that he had been beaten and punished for forgetting those simple rules. Never again, not if he could help it. He looked at Jim firmly, keeping away any insecurity. Any doubt that might mean he had failed in any manner. Jim prided himself on reading people—on knowing their every thought. But, if his workers made it even slightly difficult—tried to halt it—they were punished.

“It’s not mine.” John repeated. “It’s his.”

Jim’s eyes narrowed for a brief moment before releasing John’s chin, with a considerable force. John could feel Jim’s nails scrape his skin, feel his neck cracking slightly at being snapped back. A reminder of what would happen if he was caught lying. Or worse, if he had actually failed.

“He did look like a bit of a messy one.” Jim said, pinching the stained fabric of John’s clothes between his fingers. He released it, looking at the residue and rubbing his fingers together. “Messy all the way through, I bet.

It was messy, John had to admit. This one had nearly broken through the guards and precautions that Jim had instilled into him for the last ten years. Had almost made him forget everything with the soft whispers, the light touches, the kisses on every inch of his body. It had almost made him lose every ounce of sense.

John glanced up to find Jim glaring at him. He had been quiet too long. “Yes.” He agreed, shifting to reach into the pocket of his pants. He took the old flashdrive between his fingers, displaying it before tossing it to his boss. “More than most.”

 

\--

 

This was his job; this was his life. What he had been doing for the last ten years (at the very least, actually. He remembered being twelve when he had met Jim. From there . . . everything else was a bit of a blur). It was his job to find out everything useful about people who had made use of Jim’s services and refused to pay back the debt. Betrayal was not tolerated. It was John’s job to get all the important information that he could, particularly that of the initial cost. Always, this meant he had to interact with them, befriend them, get into their bed, get them to love him. With love, they would spill everything. And, once everything was gathered—every little bit of data—then John would dispose of them. Men and women alike—it didn’t matter. Everyone had a type, far beyond that of gender. And John always knew just how to fill it. It was his specialty.

This one was, to put it lightly, different. An ex-worker of Jim’s, who thought he had gotten out easy. John had seen him once or twice, had probably been seen by him even less. Jim wanted all of the data The Man had—everything about the network, on Jim, _anything—_ and then wanted him gone. But The Man was no fool. He hardly ever stayed out in the open. And, when he did, he made it clear that he was prepared to take down everything with him. With his death, the information would spread everywhere. The information had to be taken, eliminated from every other source, and _then_ The Man could be killed. Which was why this was key for John and not, for instance, Sebastian.

When they first officially  met, John had gone to the bar. Center of London, somewhere surrounded by people. Large crowd, high activity. Easy to move and blend in. Easy to not be spotted. A perfect spot for The Man, who went every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday to get his fill. John sat in the far corner, ordering drinks every now and then, shifting in his seat to ease the aches. Enough to be noticed.

The next day he went, he continued his work. Looking at The Man like a doe-eyed and star-struck fan, only to quickly turn away when the man noticed. He licked his lips, looking straight into the glass. Finishing it off before he dared to glance again. And then taking slight ones every so often, quickly turning away to look at an empty glass. The Man had once been on Jim’s payroll. He would notice.

When John glanced again, nearly an hour after his first move, he was slightly surprised to find that The Man had vanished. He couldn’t have known Jim’s plans already. It was easy to blend in and flee. John dreaded the penalty for failure.

Someone slid into the seat next to him, setting a drink in front. John didn’t bother looking at it, instead intrigued by whoever thought they were important enough to interrupt his work. But it was him. The Man. Laughing and teasing at John’s lack of tact. That he seriously needed to work on being sly.

His eyes grazed over John, silently appraising. He’d seen the blonde before, The Man said. He took a sip of his own drink as his mind visibly worked. The moment of truth. They had met before, and to lie would cause difficulties later.

So John sunk into his seat, displaying a mix of guilt and embarrassment. His thumbs grazed over the glass absently, eyes looking anywhere but at The Man. A hand rested on John’s shoulder.

_Not everyone got a choice_ , The Man said, voice low and soothing. Some who worked for _him_ were forced into it. Never got to get away. John tried not to smile. The Man _pitied_ him. The very thought made John want to laugh.

In the next two weeks, John did everything to make sure the two spent as much time together as possible. Meeting at strange places (of course making The Man notice him as he was just leaving, else it would raise too much attention), talking, and getting close. John did everything to appeal to the other. To make use of his research.

After all, The Man had a pattern. He liked the shy ones. The ones reluctant to say or do anything. The ones who always wanted to look like they wanted to run away—or to be protected. John had to appeal to that protective instinct. To be the victim who needed help.

This, of course, was a challenge to act out. It had been a long time since John had taken the part of the victim. But he was skilled. He was trained by the best. Made to be the best actor. Once he found the right method, it was easy to keep it going. Easy to get The Man to believe him. To hang on everything like it was the truth. And so it wasn’t hard at all to get into his bed. To slowly worm into his heart.

Everything about him was the absolute epitome of those who usually worked for Jim. Strong, confident, aware. Firm in what he wanted. But, unlike so many of the others, there was gentleness to him.  Reserved only for those intimate moments, when the lights were dim, the room was dark, the bed not quite warm. It was in the delicate way his fingers grazed John’s skin, in the lightness to every kiss. In the way he cherished John’s body, showed his adoration for every little part.

It was almost as if he was afraid of breaking the thin man underneath him. As if the scars were cracks that, if pressed wrong, would make John shatter. It was so irritating—having to act so reluctant and nervous, so much like this man’s expectations. As if someone that weak could work for Jim. So annoying, having to keep this façade and subtly urge The Man to return to bed every night, just to make the noose all the together as John worked his specialty (of course, eventually the urging became unnecessary).

His mouth was John’s favorite part, if he recalled correctly. His lips ran over John’s body so many times that it was impossible to count. His mouth always treated John’s like a temple that he cherished with all his might. His tongue was always gentle, inviting. Often tracing over every contour, every line, every scar, as if he could heal any damage that Jim ever inflicted. As he worked, his fingers would brush over John’s waist and hips, thumbs making slow and easing circles. He always pressed so gently into John, thrusts so slow and sweet. Undeniably pleasurable.

_We’ll run away_ , he whispered on some nights, fingers lacing between John’s. Both were still panting, slowly coming off the high. A trail of kisses made its way from John’s collarbone to his lips. _I’ll take you away. No one will find us. Not Jim. Not anyone._

There was never any getting out. Anyone with sense knew they couldn’t escape Jim. Especially not John. John owed his life to that man—he’d be dead otherwise. A body buried in the basement, or a creature writhing in pain and misery until he finally ended it himself.

 

\--

 

Jim had broken into John’s home when he was young. He was after something that John’s father had left behind. Something that was meant to be hidden there. Without a thought, Jim had killed John’s mother and sister—far too easily, really. John was next.

But he laughed. John just laughed. It was going to end. He was thrilled.

Jim had seen it in seconds. The bottles on the counter, the miniscule pieces of glass that had been missed in the carpet, the emotionally broken creature in front of him. He could have ended it. By all means, he should have. Should have done it without a thought.

But, instead, he took John in. Trained him. Made him strong. Taught him everything. He let John kill the father who had abandoned him—who had left him to that hell of a life. Let John have the honor while Jim retrieved the data he needed.

For that, John would serve Jim until the day he died. What John had could hardly be qualified as a life, and Jim had given him a new one. Had given him another chance.  That meant that John owed his very being to Jim. No matter what demands it resulted in, it meant that John would do whatever was necessary to keep Jim satisfied. It was meant to be used to satisfy, to please, to follow through with any orders that Jim gave. Even if John wanted to get away (and that notion did pass his mind, once in a while), it couldn’t be. John didn’t have the right to even think it.

 

\--

 

But The Man didn’t know that. He didn’t know any of it. Keeping in character, John let out a happy sigh. _Please._ He whispered. _I’ll do anything. As long as I can be with you._

The Man smiled, holding John close. In the days—weeks—after, he showed John all of the information. Everything he had gathered over the years. Everything they could use to escape the system. To actually get away.

_You’re smart._ The Man had said. _Together. This is actually possible. We can do it_.

The sad part was, that it _actually_ could work.

John worked slowly to download all of the information. When The Man was asleep, or away handling the minor details, or simply not paying attention. When it was all gathered, when everything was together, John input the virus. It would destroy the data in the computer—make it impossible to access ever again. The only copy would be the one in Jim’s possession.

It had taken longer than John anticipated. Finished only the day before they were supposed to leave together. They were entwined in bed, curled around each other. The Man was so excited—thrilled that he wouldn’t have to keep looking behind his back to make sure no one was there. So pleased that he and John could live normal lives—that he wouldn’t always have to worry if John was okay.

John worked hard to give him the perfect finish. To give him the most pleasurable and mind-blowing experience that he could possibly create. He did things that John’s shy persona would never fathom—blamed it on how happy he was that they could do this. It was something he did for all of his victims. An apology, in a way.

When it was done, when The Man lay close to John, his arms wrapped in the most kind and loving embrace, John made his move. He broke free, turning and slitting The Man’s throat.

He watched the confusion, the betrayal, the utter hurt in The Man’s eyes. This was John’s punishment. The only thing he could do to hurt himself for what he had to do. The price he had to pay to keep living. He forced himself to watch this every time. His own personal hell.

Blood seeping into the sheets, John lifted himself out of the bed. He reached for his clothes, still watching. By the time he was fully dressed, The Man was mostly gone. John moved back to the bed, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to the man’s forehead.  

John washed his face, looking to see that the blood on his skin had stained through his shirt. There was no point in changing. He worked to remove all the remaining presence of his existence. Then, when he was going out the door, he looked behind him.

_I’m sorry_. He whispered, shutting the door behind him.

 

\--

 

Jim moved into John’s lap, not even bothering with the buttons on John’s shirt as he straddled him. His fingers ripped at the fabric, yanking it away from John and throwing it across the room.

“You’ve done very well.” He purred. His hands brushed down John’s chest, over his stomach. Over the scars, many of which John honestly couldn’t separate whether they had been given to him by his mother or by Jim. Jim’s fingers pressed into a particular one on his hip, a brand that Jim had given John the first time he had tried to run away. The mere memory made the skin sensitive, and John twitched under the touch.

John swallowed as Jim’s eyes flicked up to examine John’s face. Praise could turn to punishment very quickly.

“What a good little pet you are~” Jim continued, leaning forward and biting into John’s shoulder. It was quite firm, enough to quickly bruise but not tear at the skin—as long as John didn’t move.

A hand thrust down John’s pants, pressing firmly against his groin. John twitched in surprise, gasping at the sudden pain in his shoulder. He grit his teeth as he felt liquid drip down his skin, not wanting to make too much more noise.

Jim laughed, continuing to press against John’s groin, licking at the injured skin. The hand’s grip was strong, forceful—almost painful—making John bend to his will. The Man was wrong, John constantly reminded himself. He didn’t need to be treated like he was going to beak. He didn’t need to be so gently and sweetly loved and caressed. No. This was what he wanted—what he deserved. All that someone like John would ever get. He’d be a toy, a tool, always a means of entertaining Jim. That was his fate.

He knew it. He accepted it. He moaned as Jim pressed even harder, the motion making John gasp and pant despite his best efforts. Jim didn’t waste his effort with nips—he bit John’s skin, many of which left bruises and made others bleed. It hurt more than it pleasured.

“I’m all you’ve got, Johnny.” Jim hissed. His mouth claimed John’s, tongue forceful and mapping out all that was his. It made John’s jaw ache, his tongue being forced into the most uncomfortable position, his neck hurt at the unnatural position. Jim kept John’s neck forced up that way with a firm hand, biting at the delicate skin of John’s neck. Barely far enough from the jugular.  “All you’ll ever get.”

John didn’t need to be reminded. He knew. He had enough reminders before. He knew he didn’t deserve any better than this—not after what he had done. All he deserved was to be used. Used until it killed him.

“And you’ve been _such_ a good boy,” Jim released John’s chin, kissing him again in a way that wasn’t nearly as painful, “that I think you deserve a night with Mr. Sex.”

John swallowed, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as Jim dug his nails into John’s back. It’s hardly a reward. When Jim had his fun, John would find it nearly impossible to move for days. If he was lucky, it would only take half a day to recover. If not, maybe three or four weeks. But Jim never accepted a “no.” John took a deep breath to brace himself.

Yes. This was all he deserved.  

 

                 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is given a new job, and a reminder.

John lay awake in bed. He hadn’t slept at all—at least nothing that could be qualified as sleep. His body ached, making it utterly undesirable to move. He probably would look in the mirror later—when he could stand—and count the multitude of bruises and cuts that Jim gave him _this_ time. But it wasn’t the physical pain that kept him up. No, he was used to that.

What he wasn’t accustomed to, however, was that emptiness that came after. After Jim did everything he wanted--after violent thrusts, digging scratches, powerful bites, deep cuts, one fairly bad burn, and several new things he had tried to make John cry out—there was just this painful emptiness. The pain of it worse than anything Jim had done. Worse than Jim had _ever_ done.

He didn’t know what it was or where it came from. He couldn’t really describe it, either. And it was the mere fact that he knew so little about himself that kept him awake. When Jim finally left to his own room, leaving John alone in a bed that was far too big for him, John determined to figure out what it was. His mind scanned the numerous things he had researched before, all that he read, all that Jim had taught him. But there was nothing. No explanation of this emptiness or of the pain associated with it. What _was_ it?

John heard footsteps outside his door. Leaving the thoughts in the back of his mind, he rolled over onto his side, facing away from the entrance. He slowed his breathing, relaxed his shoulders. If Jim knew that he was awake and still lying in bed, there would be hell to pay. Regardless of whether or not it was _actually_ possible.

However, if he slept through Jim’s entrance, he would also be in trouble. When the door creaked open, John twitched. His shoulders stiffened, a slight mumble out of his mouth. Every minute detail made a difference. He rubbed his eyes, not yet turning to face the door.

“Sleeping in?” Jim said, a bit of a sing-song tone to his voice. “Well, I _did_ work you hard last night.”

“Yeah. . .” John groaned, rolling onto his back.

He flinched as he came face-to-face with Jim. The other moved too quickly, too silently. Though it had always kept John on his toes, his exhaustion lowered his awareness. He only hoped that Jim didn’t notice. Or perhaps he was too busy to care.

Jim firmly held onto Jim’s chin, forcing his mouth onto the blonde’s. His tongue pressed through John’s lips, having its fun. Jim’s hand pressed into John’s side, making the scratches sting and the bruises throb. John found it hard to breathe, but he was already pressed hard into his bed and had no way to break away. It made his lungs burn. His fingers dug into Jim’s arms. He tried to shift with the kiss to get the slightest taste of air, but Jim anticipated each move and didn’t allow it.

When Jim finally broke the kiss, John was left gasping and panting. He restrained a cough, else Jim “take offense” to it and entertain himself with other things. It was too early for this. Then again, it wasn’t like he was a stranger to being woken in the middle of the night or early in the morning for punishments or praises alike. He was drained, and didn’t know how well he could maneuver an encounter with Jim today.

“I have a new job for you.” Jim muttered, fixing his suit as he stood back up straight.

“Already?” John muttered, moving to sit up. A new headache came in, joining the forces of all the throbbing pains that didn’t want him to move. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb, trying to urge it away. Not effective in the least.

“Think of it as more of a vacation.”

John looked up at him, not quite sure what that meant. It made him uneasy.  “How so?”

“It will require very few of your skills. I want you to infiltrate, observe, and report. Most of the first is taken care of.”

So there wasn’t a need for him to get close to the target. Nothing like drawing out their affection, or love. No secrets to dig out and pull away. No trust to build and manipulate. Just staying close enough, observing, and reporting to Jim. It sounded too easy. A “vacation” was an understatement.

“Who is it?” He asked.

A cold smile grew on Jim’s face, very nearly reaching his eyes this time. John had only seen it once or twice before, never directed toward him. Which he was grateful for. Those who got that look were tormented and teased and slowly led into their demise. Forced into it in the worst ways possible. Those who got that look were brought to the highest points imaginable—and then have everything ripped away. It was a miserable business.

“An old friend of mine.” Jim rocked on his heels. He looked so utterly pleased with himself. It was terrifying. “A Sherlock Holmes.”

“The detective in London?” He had heard of this man. Through whispers, angry chatter over drinks. A lot of people in the network hated him. Avoided London and the surrounding area like the plague. He was smart, they said. If they left even the slightest trace, he could find them. He could end their work. And few were lucky enough to get imprisoned. Jim usually ended them before that.

So either this was a death sentence, or Jim actually had enough faith in John to keep covert. Sebastian had worked there for a few years, and he hadn’t been found. And he was in the same tier as John, when it came to Jim’s trust.

“That’s the one.” Jim said, humming.

“Just observe and report?”

“Well,” he tilted his head as he mulled it over for a moment, “and I’d like you to make sure he doesn’t die. A few games might get a bit . . . icky.”

So Jim was going to toy with this Sherlock. Considering the detective’s track record, it would very possibly be quite capable of entertaining Jim.  However, it would also make him the target of many criminals—those who wanted access to a wider network with less restrictions and worries. They would probably do anything to make sure the detective saw his end, unaware that Jim had more in mind for this Holmes than anyone realized. For the game to end early—before Jim wanted it to— it would be bad. Very bad.   

“Understood.” John nodded, moving his legs off the bed and sitting on the edge. But something concerned him. Yes, he was good. Very good. But this Holmes was an impressive detective. Rumored to have the same skill as Jim, even. “However, how do I make sure he doesn’t see through me? If I can stop anyone from killing him, use what skills I have—there’s only so much I can do before he becomes suspicious.”

Jim narrowed his eyes, a slender smile on his face. Either he expected it, or something infinitely more terrifying. “Simple.” He hummed.

John looked up at him, swallowing. Was it something he missed.

“All we have to do. . . is make. You. Interesting.”

John opened his mouth to protest. To clarify. Something that he hadn’t yet figured out how to define. Not far enough in his thoughts. Something. But he was cut off by a deafening sound. One he knew too well.

At first, it was just a thud. The contact. The feel of being pushed back, of a push. Something insignificant. Then, a sharp pain started to settle in. By now, his body leaned forward, balanced only by the fact that his feet were already on the ground. Shot in the back. Someone had been waiting there. And John hadn’t noticed. Jim had planned this from the start. The pain was nothing at first, but quickly becoming more and more intense.  Unbearable now.

Clutching his shoulder, he tried to stand. To dodge, take cover. Get out of the range of a second shot. But his body wasn’t reacting right. Shock. Instead, he tumbled to the floor, making it hurt even worse. Warm blood trickled through his fingers, onto the floor. He could feel it surrounding him, enveloping him. He wanted to get away from it. His body simply refused.

Gasping for air and trying to fight against the pain, John tried to focus. Passing out could only have one result. He clenched his teeth. It was too much. A constant. One he wanted to escape. Escape. He should have done it. Should have run away. Should have left with The Man. No. This is what he was being punished for. For wanting to get away. This was his just punishment. A message he would bear until the moment he died (which might be quite soon, really).

Jim stepped across the growing puddle of blood, squatting in front of John. “See?” He said, more sing-song. “More _interesting_.” He smiled.

John’s gaze was fixated on that smile until consciousness abandoned him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: We get to meet Sherlock! As always, comments are appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets the infamous Sherlock Holmes

John made his way through the park. Nearly four months since Jim had given him the job, and he was only starting now. Mostly because he spent most of it on bed rest, arm in a sling and every movement painful. Doctors had been close by, had been quick. Still they could only account for so much blood loss, so much trauma to the area.  And the pain made movement undesirable. Still, he had work to do. And Jim wasn’t patient. If John took any longer than he needed to recover, he might just get another one in his other shoulder. Or in the head. Depended on the mood Jim was in, really.  

He had a limp now, couldn’t walk without that bloody cane. Sebastian continually teased during his short visits. As if the reminder that he was shot in the _shoulder_ would make any difference. John had tried to focus on ignoring it, knowing it was all in his head. But when he stepped, put too much pressure on it, waves of pain went up his leg. Even if he wanted to walk on it, he couldn’t. How he was supposed to do _anything_ like this was far beyond him.

“Watson! John Watson!” A hand clapped down on his shoulder. The bad one. Though it was well now, it was quite stiff, and still sensitive. John winced. “You walked right past me, mate.”

John turned to face the man. He had been too trapped in his own thoughts, in the mindset to still look normal, that he hadn’t even noticed. Hadn’t even paid attention to his job. To the reason he was here. If anyone had been watching, he’d be reported on. Reprimanded. Luckily, Stamford wasn’t that kind of guy.

“I must have missed you.” John replied simply.

Stamford laughed. “Yeah, you don’t have to say it. I got fat!”

“No.” John said, though a bit too quickly. Stamford _had_ gotten fat. Of course, that seemed to be a part of his job. Look as unthreatening as possible. He was the most able to blend in, to have access to numerous avenues. To be able to communicate with his multiple runners and sources to get the best information in London. He was brilliant, really.  “Just been a while.”

“Yeah.” Stamford nodded. “Time changes all of us.” He looked pointedly at the cane John rested on. With a slight nod, he signaled to a nearby bench.

John followed behind, slow to sit. It was more difficult than it should be—maneuvering so he didn’t hurt himself.  When he finally made it, the two sat in silence. Stamford’s gaze was far-off, observing an exchange between three men on the opposite end of the park. Its purpose was lost on John, though he didn’t particularly care.

“I don’t envy you, you know.” Stamford said finally, looking back to John. “Being so close to the boss.”

John glanced over. Only he and Sebastian were that close. Others moved in and out of the ranks. Despite how far they had come, how much they had worked, they were still disposable to Jim. Few lasted long. It was safer, lasting this long. Being where he was. At least relatively. “Why’s that?”

“I’ve stayed out of the way of a bullet.”

“You’re an informant. Not a fighter.” John said, rolling his eyes.

“I wasn’t referring to that of the enemy.”Stamford’s eyes were dark, gaze flicking to John’s shoulder.

As if responding, the scarred area ached just so slightly. John hardly ever got hurt by a target or an enemy; most of the damage came from Jim. Everyone knew that. Privilege came at a high cost. John bit the inside of his cheek, sighing.

“Still working at Bart’s?” He asked, trying to change the subject.

“Teaching there now, actually.” Stamford leaned back into the bench, pushing his glasses up. “Bunch of lively kids. I _hate_ them!”

The two laughed. The hospital was a good place to get and maintain his operation. Keep the appearance of normalcy, and yet gain information so easily. People passed in and out of hospitals all the time without being noticed. Information simply had to pass from hand to hand. Fewer records, easy accessibility. A prime location.

“Convenient that Holmes likes going there.” Stamford said, shrugging. “I got lucky, really. It would be irritating having to get a hold of him some other way.”

“Huh.” John tapped his fingers on the cane. What kind of man would this Holmes have to be to have such a reputation, and yet be difficult to get a hold on? Better yet, what on earth did he have to do at St. Bart’s?

“You got lucky, really.” Stamford continued. “He’s currently looking for a flatmate so he can stay in London.”

“You think he would want _me_ for a flatmate?” John tried to restrain a laugh. He was good at keeping up an act for a long period of time. Very good. But, then again, to keep it up with a  well-known detective was, well, a bit precarious. So many things could go wrong with the slightest slip-up.

Stamford looked down and laughed.

“What?”

“ _He_ said the same thing.” Stamford explained, fixing his glasses again. “When I told him I had a friend who might be interested.”

“Oh, and who’s that?” John gave a weak smile at his own joke. Stamford’s own smile was more from pity, really. But it was some semblance of normalcy. Stamford was good at that.

 

“What’s he like?” John asked as the two moved slowly through Bart’s to meet the man. The target. The infamous legend.  Though information was abundant, it was rather vague when it came to Holmes’ personality and traits. Which was a rather difficult position to be in if John was going to appeal to him at all. He was practically going in blind—not impossible, really, but definitely not desirable.

The other thought it over for a brief moment. “It’s hard to explain.”

“You could try.”

Stamford shook his head, opening the door for John. “It’s easier to learn on your own.”

John could only have a brief look. Too long would be suspicious. Raven hair, a long curly mess. Hardly taken care of. Pale skin—didn’t spend too much time outdoors or bothering with the sun. Cheekbones prominent, more so than what genetics supplied. So he didn’t eat often. Eyes bright (such an odd color, an odd mix. Fascinating. Could easily be stared at for hours). Very intense. Focused on the work he was doing with a Petri dish.

John glanced around the room. Similar equipment as to what they had at the base he stayed at. Though it was more white and clean. Less used. Shinier. Seemed less chaotic in a way. It was interesting. Of course, John didn’t use this kind of equipment often. Only when it was absolutely needed. Otherwise, on his breaks, the most he did was aid the other doctors—removing bullets, stitching injuries, repairing damaged organs, reorganizing dead bodies to change the way and time it seemed they died. Things that fascinated him. That he willingly gave his time to. This sort of thing, in this all too white room, was considerably too stifling.

“Bit different from my day.” John commented lightly, looking at a nearby monitor. He didn’t mean the equipment.  Scientists were those in white coats, intense and obvious. Detectives in dark outfits, sneaking around and getting too far into everyone’s business. Was this Holmes the combination of both?

Stamford chuckled. “You’ve no idea.” He glanced at John, smiling. He was entertained, the irritating informant.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?” Holmes asked, flopping into a chair by the computer. He was so lax-looking. Perhaps not even aware that his life was always on the line. Or that he was on the Spider’s radar. Or, even more interesting, he didn’t care. He most certainly didn’t look like a man always walking into the line of fire.

“Whatever for?” There was a mild trace of exasperation in Stamford’s tone.

“There’s no signal on mine.”

“Sorry,” Stamford shrugged, “left it in the office.”

“You can use mine.” John said simply, reaching into his pocket. A newer one he had received from Jim, void of old data. Simple contacts, very little more than the mere basics. To look normal, keep him in contact with the usual people, and avoid suspicion as much as possible. If he recalled correctly, Sebastian had put himself in the contacts as “Big Brother.” Oddly appropriate.

Giving the briefest glance to Stamford, Holmes rose from his seat and took the phone from John. Only a second more for information. Wrinkles on the face. Either frustrated or focused at most times. Not old though. Few wrinkles around the cheeks. Smiles less frequent. So far, the serious, arrogant, mal-nourished, lazy, and incredibly intelligent Sherlock Holmes was just about as unappealing to John as possible. He already foresaw the loads of work ahead of him. Vacation his ass. This man was almost entirely like all of Jim’s bad traits.

“An old friend of mine.” Stamford said, signaling to John. “John Watson.”

“Central or Private Corps?” Holmes asked, turning away as he typed on the phone.

John narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“Which  was it? Central or Private?” Holmes glanced up, catching John’s poorly-veiled confusion. Their eyes only made contact for a brief moment before Holmes returned his attention to the phone. John looked behind at Stamford. Stamford pressed his lips together to restrain a laugh, quirking an eyebrow and giving a small shrug. As if the question was obvious.

Oh, of course. Fighting unit. One directly under the military or under a private individual or corporation. Special teams. To say military would erase doubts of being a mercenary, but it might also be caught up as a lie, later. It wasn’t incredibly hard to get a hand on military records. If Holmes searched, John would end up being pursued and attacked by Holmes and the government alike.

“Private.” John responded simply. Not a lie. In simplest terms, that’s what it was. Jim’s private army in the battle to claim the English underground for himself. A battle that was being won every day. “Sorry, how did you--?”

“Ah, Molly.” Holmes looked past John and Stamford, at the girl who entered the room.

A mousy thing, in a way. More shy, perhaps. No, not that. Softspoken. Nervous. Not entirely confident in herself. Probably had her moments of strength, but was typically reserved to pleasing others. John had met women like her before. Easy to flatter, hard to get anything useful out of.

“Coffee. Thank you.” Holmes took the coffee from the girl’s hands, peering at her for a moment. “The lipstick?”

“Ah . . . wasn’t working for me.” The girl, Molly, said, fidgeting a bit. It seemed it was hard not to, under that gaze.

“Shame.” Holmes took a sip, making a face. He put the mug down and turned away from Molly, returning to his work. “Your mouth is too small otherwise.”

John could see the girl’s expression fall. Lovely. Rude had to be added to the list. Practically _exactly_ like Jim. Now it made sense. Who better to entertain Jim than another person just like him? She gave a small smile, turning and heading out the door. John almost felt sorry for her.

“I play the violin when I think.” Holmes said, snapping John back to attention.

John looked behind him, but the girl was already out the door. Stamford was giving John a smile. _Oh_. This was going to be ridiculous. He was already losing patience with the man, and he hardly knew him. “Sorry, what?” He could hardly keep his irritation out of his tone. Luckily, he managed.

“Would that bother you?” Holmes continued, looking up at John from his computer. “Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” He wore a sad and grotesque excuse for a smile on his face as he looked up at John.

John tried to restrain a smile himself. As if he was going to tell Holmes’ his worst. Of course, that one would probably be a hard one to define. He glanced back at Stamford. “You told him already?”

“Phone’s _still_ in the office.” Stamford reminded him.

John licked his lips, turning to Sherlock. “Then who said anything about flatmates?”

Holmes looked so nonchalant, picking his coat off of a chair and putting it on. “ _I_ did.” Just a trace of petulance in his voice. As if he had been insulted by a careless comment. “I told Mike this morning I would be difficult to find a flatmate for. And now here he is with an old friend, not long after he clearly stated that he had just the one in mind. And clearly just home from military service.   _Not really_ all that big of a leap.”

John’s smile couldn’t be restrained. _Very_ fascinating. This might just be fun after all. “And _how_ did you know about the service?”

Holmes didn’t respond, wrapping a ridiculously ragged and worn scarf around his neck in an odd fashion. With the combination of his coat, it made his already long neck look longer. Helped make his face look slightly more intimating, though. Of course, that might have just been the cheekbones.

“There’s this place in central London I like. Together we can easily afford it.”

Well, that was easy. It was no joke when Jim said that the infiltration would be easy. It didn’t take much to get close to Holmes. Perhaps that was Stamford’s doing. Regardless, John was impressed. Still, any _normal_ person, one who could probably find anyone, would protest.

He turned to face Holmes as he passed.  “Is that it?”

“Ah.” Holmes paused at the door, only for a moment. “Right. Tomorrow evening. Seven. Sorry I can’t chat longer. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

Well, _that_ was something that the others didn’t mention. John tried not to let his imagination go too far there. The corners of his lips turned up at the image. “Not what I meant.”

“Problem?”

“We don’t know anything about each other.” John said, stating the obvious. But that wasn’t enough. Strangers would do anything if it helped save money, sometimes. “I don’t know where we’re meeting. I don’t even know your name.” Yeah, that would be bad if he said Holmes’ name without ever actually being introduced. Really stupid mistake.

Holmes turned around, looking John over. “I know you’re a military man—doctor, actually—who has been invalided home from your service. You have a friend named Sebastian who is the only person you ever bother contacting, despite the fact your big brother is probably more able to help. I also know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic—quite correctly, I’m afraid.” He smirked. “That’s enough, don’t you think?”

John opened his mouth, but Holmes had already left. He rolled his eyes.

It was only a moment before Holmes leaned into the room once more. “The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221 Baker Street. Afternoon.”

With that, the man was gone again. John and Stamford waited in silence to see if he might return. When it was unlikely John coughed out a light laugh, giving Stamford an incredulous look.

“Yeah.” The other smiled. “He’s always like that. You’re going to have fun, I think.”

John shook his head. This Holmes was a fascinating man. Intelligent, that much was obvious. And yet so wrong. So very, very wrong. Still, there was only so much he could come up with when he assumed everyone else was ordinary. And that didn’t lessen the interest at all. The charade had been set, John’s interest piqued. Perhaps Holmes would drive him crazy, but at least it wouldn’t be boring.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference to the script supplied here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html for the lines I couldn't remember. This has helped a ton!


	4. Chapter 4

“He’s gone.” Donovan said, crossing her arms. John glanced over at her; at least she wasn’t as cold to him as she had been to Sherlock.

John huffed. He lacked the patience and willpower for this. Damned Holmes, running off without warning. Leaving him like this, stuck back with people who loathed his existence. This was irritating. Donovan looked at him expectantly.  “Is he coming back?” He asked, glancing over. At least they might have some vague notion of the man’s habits.

An odd expression came on her face. “Didn’t look like it.”

This was frustrating. He frowned.  “Right.” He muttered. He looked down the street. It was nighttime, and the streets were painfully empty. Considering his condition, it would take quite some time to get to a main street where he could get a cab. What a pain. Well, there was nothing to gain around here. He sighed, ducking under the tape.

“You’re not his friend.” Donovan said, so certain in her answer. She was more annoying than this entire situation. He glanced at her, and she looked so damn pleased with herself. In whatever knowledge she knew. “He doesn’t _have_ friends.”

“So I’ve noticed.” John said, resting his weight on the cane. His leg was aching again. No matter how much he moved or tried to ignore it, it kept coming back.

“So who are you?” Damn, she was nosy. She was lucky that he wasn’t Jim, or Sebastian, else she wouldn’t be annoying for much longer. But she was hardly worth his time. No, she was the reason he was getting further and further from Sherlock.

“I’m . . . I’m nobody.” John affirmed. He glanced at her, watching her response. Nothing noticeable. Good. “I just met him.”

She narrowed her eyes, leaning closer. “Bit of advice: stay away from him.”

“Oh?” Interesting. What could she think was so important that it might deter _him_? Perhaps it was worth dealing with her annoyances.

“He likes it. Being here. Gets off on it. He’s not paid. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. One day, it won’t be enough—we’ll be standing around the body and he’ll be the one who put it there.” She looked so terribly into it. As if her observations were perfect fact. Although . . . they were useful.

“Why’s that?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Because he’s a psychopath.” She winced at the thought, staring at the floor. Her gaze flicked up, more intense than ever before. “And psychopaths get bored.”   

Oh, that was so true. It was a terrible thing when psychopaths got bored—John had endured so much of that. And, if a psychopath didn’t remain entertained, then things could go very wrong. Her concerns were legitimate, if Holmes was actually a psychopath. Which, by the way things were looking, was incredibly unlikely. How interesting. He smiled.

She was running off, called by Lestrade. He had hardly noticed. She turned to say something, stopping abruptly. The look on her face was surprising. Ah. John forgot that he was smiling. He gave her the slightest wave, turning on his heels and starting to make the slow move down the street.

It wouldn’t be so annoying if it weren’t for his damn leg. Bloody hell. Sherlock knew it—was aware of it—and he left John here alone. Where, presumably, John wouldn’t know where he was or what he needed to do to get home. How inconsiderate. How the hell did he get himself stuck with _this_ one?

 

\--

 

John couldn’t lie that he was incredibly fascinated by this Holmes, and he had only seen him for a matter of minutes. Stamford was right. He fell into his bed—a small room that was just to be used for a couple days. His shoulder ached slightly, but the pain died away. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the phone.

“Hum.” He muttered, flicking through the menu. What could have been so important to text that he couldn’t wait until he was in the range of a signal?

 

_If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. –SH_

John looked at the message again. Checked to see if there were any others. That was it. Simple. Short. He couldn’t help but laugh.  

 

\--

 

“Mr. Holmes.” John said, offering his hand after the other left the cab. Their parting last time wasn’t exactly typical, though he was curious as to how it would begin again. Best to keep the same foot for now, giving him a more stable viewpoint to look from.

“Sherlock, please.” The kindness in his voice was too heavy—forced in a way. It almost made John want to gag. Sherlock made his way to the door, abruptly opened by a  charming-looking woman. Aged, definitely, though John could see the traces that time wasn’t the only cause. Interesting.

He wasn’t sure whether or not he should be surprised that Holmes knew the woman offering the loft for rent (or that he ensured her husband’s sentence), that Sherlock had already decided to move in, or that he had a skull that he used to talk to. It was quite obvious that Sherlock was an eccentric man.

“Looked you up, you know.” John said, sitting on one of the armchairs. His leg was throbbing.

Sherlock glanced over at him, pausing in the half-assed attempt to clean. John mentally noted that it was probably going to be rather easy to insult the man—likewise, possibly even easier to coerce him to do anything.

“On the internet.” John continued, when Sherlock said nothing. “The Science of Deduction. That’s your website, right?”

Sherlock straightened himself, grinning. “What did you think?”

There were a lot of things that John thought about it, really. If it weren’t for the fact that he lived with someone just as skilled, he would have thought it to be a load of bull. When he was younger, he thought that the idea of someone being able to know everything about you from the smallest traces was , well, ridiculous. It seemed Sherlock was much more boisterous about his skills—no, arrogant was the right word. It was seeped into every word on that damned website of his. John had read it to try to get a taste of Sherlock’s personality, and instead found something like a textbook on the most boring things.

He glanced up at Sherlock. A bit late for a normal response. Took too long to think. “You said you could identify an airline pilot by his thumb.” He said, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock smiled, opening his mouth to speak again. His gaze flicked up, and instead he turned around, going to look out the window. John looked at him a bit in surprise, though the sound of heels hinted at the cause.

“What about these suicides then, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson entered the room, the newspaper in her hand crinkling a bit as she moved. “I thought that’d be right up your street. Three exactly the same.”

Oh, right. The “suicides.” John had heard about it from the grapevine. A case that Sebastian had given him notice about—a test, he said. For both Sherlock and John. A crime to test Sherlock’s skills, and a danger apt enough to see if John could handle the job. If he recalled, it was some man who convinced people to take their own lives, leaving nothing but empty bottles. An interesting way of handling it, that was for sure. Of course, the man was arrogant enough to think that he was so much higher than everyone else, and had been given the privilege to talk to Jim himself. Both sides thought they were using the other, but, of course, Jim was the only one in power here.  Still, at least this wasn’t going to be boring.

“Four.” Sherlock corrected, eyes out the window.  He smiled, eyes flicking to Mrs. Hudson and John. “And something different this time.”

D.I. Lestrade entered the room, far too noisily for his own good. This was why they were so easy to evade here—no bloody tact, no skill, nothing. Criminals whose cases had been given to Lestrade were typically ensured a way out. An easy escape. Of course, if Lestrade was close to Sherlock—which seemed to be the case here—it was far less likely. Threads given to Lestrade could very easily give away more than they bargained for. A larger threat to Jim and the network—one he’d have to report.

“Look at him, dashing about!” Mrs. Hudson sighed, looking at the door. Ah, John hadn’t been paying attention again. At this rate, he’d miss half of everything that was said. Useless. “My husband was just the same.”

John glanced up at her. He couldn’t tell if it was fondness, or just a simple memory. She was an interesting woman, he could tell. Perhaps it would be best to leave her out of the reports—just keep an eye on her and see what he could.

She smiled sweetly at John. “I’ll make you a cuppa.”

John nodded gratefully as she left for the kitchen. He sighed, picking up the newspaper that she had left behind. He’d have a lot of work to do here. Beyond the cleaning, the acting, the watching. It would be impossible to guard and observe Sherlock if the man was busy running about in every direction. With his leg, it would be impossible. And the git had that damn skull to talk to—John let out a light chuckle, imagining him carrying it about to crime scenes to think. Still, there had to be some way to get close, to ensure that things were going right instead of sitting about like a crippled dunce.

“You’re a soldier.” Sherlock’s deep voice marked his entrance. John turned to look over the armchair, surprised that the man was still here. Hadn’t he just rushed off to the crime scene. “More than that. A military doctor.”

“Yes.” It wasn’t a lie. He had aided the doctors quite frequently, learning their trade and every little thing he could. It had been a passion of his, really. Perhaps something he would have pursued if it weren’t for his . . . situation. Regardless, the activity on the field gave him more knowledge and experience than most doctors he had encountered. In many cases, they thought he was just like them. So he could pull this off quite easily.

“Any good?” Sherlock asked, watching as John moved to stand.

John smiled. “Very.”

“Seen a lot of injuries? Violent deaths?”

More than Sherlock ever could imagine. “Yes.”

“Trouble too, I bet.”

“Enough for a lifetime.” John said, a bit quietly. More than normal people. More than anyone could ever get used to. “Far too much.” No. If this was going where he wanted it too, then he should be eager to join Holmes. Not reluctant. Not like the pathetic little child he was playing now. Damn it.

“Want to see some more?” Sherlock asked, smiling.

John grinned. “Oh, God, yes.”

 

\--

 

John cursed as he walked down the street. Yes, Sherlock was fascinating. Amazing, really. It was utterly astounding how people who were so alike could be so different. Jim worked to beat those around him into submission, to show how utterly inept everyone else was. To give them no choice but to comply. But Sherlock wasn’t like that. Yes, he was pretty much a peacock, flaunting and strutting about. But it wasn’t to get a hold of others. It wasn’t even to prove how much better he was. No, it was to make a point. “Make a point,” that was what he had said when John asked why he was there.

What _was_ that point? Still, it eluded John, in both parts. He wasn’t needed in that room, by Sherlock’s side, when Sherlock knew everything and could see through practically anything. He had discerned so much from the body by looking at it for no more than a few minutes—and John’s “advice”, though sound, was nothing more than what Sherlock already knew. And to flaunt that he knew it, there had to be a point. But what point was there beyond proving how much better you were than everyone else?

John jolted as his pocket started to vibrate. He huffed; he had been spacing out too much. Walking down the main street, not terribly crowded due to the time of night. Still, a cab passed by, too quick for him to hail it. With a sigh, he reached into his pocket, almost hoping it was Holmes. At least he’d be able to chew him out a little bit.

Sebastian. Had he messed up already? Taking a deep breath, John answered, continuing to move down the street on his way back to the loft. If he found another cab, it would mean luck was on his side. “Sebastian. Something wrong?”

“That’s because you never call me.”  Sebastian’s voice was low and calm. Just the faintest hint of amusement. “We need to talk more.”

John’s gaze flicked in the direction of the phone. There was the potential that they were being monitored, a higher chance than usual. More precaution was necessary. Act like everything was normal. “You’re not exactly the most entertaining person to talk to.” He said. “Did something happen?”

“It’s about Elizabeth.” _Government._

“Wife or daughter?”

“Wife.” _High government officials._

John pressed his lips together, a sharp inhale. For Sebastian to call meant that John had been monitored for quite some time. And it threatened to ruin everything. “Did something happen?”

“Bun in the oven.” There was a hint of happiness in Sebastian’s voice. Faked. _You are being followed._

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Found out today.” _Expect contact today_.

“Congrats, mate!” John scratched the back of his head, a smile on his face. He took a quick inventory of his surroundings. Everything seemed normal. “That’s great!”

“Yeah, it is.” There was a ticking on the other side of the line. “Ah, Queenie’s getting impatient. Have to run. She sends her regards.”

The line went dead and John shoved the phone in his pocket. Jim was aware of it, noticed the threat. If John was caught, if he revealed anything, he was a dead man. No, death would be kind. The government would probably provide death. Jim would drop John into the very pits of hell. He had to keep his calm, believe his own act. If he did that, it would become more natural, more believable. Though incredibly difficult as he was considerably shaken by the call.

A phone rang. John’s hand instinctively went to his pocket, but there was no accompanying vibration. He glanced up, curious. A telephone box. No one else was around. The call was meant for him. And, if it was who he thought, it would be persistent. Or the message would come in a less tolerable form. With a sigh, he walked into the booth and clenched his fists before answering.

“Hello?”

“There is a security camera on the building to your left.” A deep voice, though not to the same level as Sherlock’s. And not a voice that John was familiar with. So it was one of _them_. “Do you see it?”

John glanced over, not entertaining the threat with terrible resistance. To resist too much would draw attention. Too little would also give it away. The camera was staring right at him. “Who is this?” He asked, letting the slightest tremor ride on a slow breath.

“Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?”

“Yeah, I see it.”

“And the one on the building opposite you?”

John glanced up. It was looking at him too, only before shifting away. He hummed his affirmation.

“Good.” As the man spoke, a dark car pulled up in front of the telephone box. “Get into the car, Doctor Watson.”

John pressed his lips together, watching as a man opened the door.

“I would make a threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.”

The man on the other line hung up, and John greatly resisted the urge to slam the handset back on its perch. “Bastard.” He huffed. How much did this man know? If it was a threat, there were a handful of other ways that would be just as effective. Intimidating him via surveillance was hardly threatening at all. Jim had the same skills, able to do it right under the government’s nose. As if that was a problem. But, still, the part about his “situation” was alarming. Was it that he was trapped? To flee would make him marked in their books, fair game. It would draw too much attention and he would lose his ability to complete the mission.

He walked out of the booth, entering the car, albeit hesitantly. He could play it like a normal citizen. He knew their fears, knew what they did when uncertain. The threat could apply to anything—to the fact that, if this mysterious person had access to public cameras, then he probably had access to so much more—or to the menacing car. He could play dumb. He knew how to under severe torture, under every sort of exhaustion and pain treatment that Jim had used as little more than foreplay. Whoever this was, he was going to be severely disappointed.

 

John had to admit, it was an impressive display of power. Bringing him into an abandoned warehouse, thinking that would make him feel vulnerable. And the suited man must have thought he was impressive, holding his umbrella and standing there as if he were expecting John.  Of course, considering the circumstances, he probably was. Probably stood there for a good five minutes, at the very least, while John was in the car. The thought almost make John laugh.

“Have a seat, John.” The man said, signaling to a nearby chair.

“I’ve got a phone, you know.” John said, giving a slight smirk. “Very elaborate. Impressive, really. But you could just phone me. On my phone.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet.”

John tried to keep his relaxation from becoming visible. This was about Sherlock. Well, that could have been worse. “Phoning me in the middle of a street instead of calling me on a phone. _Very_ discreet.”

“The leg must be hurting you.” The man said, looking pointedly at John’s cane. “Sit down.”

“I’d rather not.” To sit was to invite vulnerability. A split second of valuable reaction time. It could be the difference between getting away and having a bullet in his head. This man was familiar, and it put John’s nerves on edge. But he couldn’t place it. Government officials didn’t last long when Jim bothered to have them in his attention. So who was this?

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

Ah, still a fascination with Sherlock. But not one of Jim’s men. No. No one on the web would interfere with John’s job, knowing better than to irritate the spider. And few below Jim had access to the cameras and equipment. So not one of Jim’s. And a government man who managed to live while under Jim’s attention. Who _was_ he? “Don’t have one.” He replied simply. “Met him yesterday.”

The man looked at a small book he held in his coat pocket. “Yes, and since then you have moved in with him and you are aiding him in assisting crimes. Should we expect a happy announcement at the end of the week?”

Ah, right. The arrogance, the irritation, the immense access to information and power. Mycroft Holmes. The target’s brother and essentially “the British Government.” The family resemblance was striking, particularly in the levels of irritation. His weaknesses were obvious, making him a useful pawn. Jim had warned him about this figure, noting that Mycroft had a sentimental weakness for his brother and would make clear attempts to interfere if he noticed anything strange. “I like living in London.” John said simply.

“And yet you’ve only been here for a week.” His eyes narrowed, a sly expression on his face. Crap.

“Who _are_ you?” John asked, hand gripping around the cane. Had to play the concerned party, but not fearful. No, that was too much of a turn.  He was trapped in a game of chess, stuck playing with pawns while Mycroft had all of his pieces. A misstep and he could screw it up already.

“An interested party.”

“Interested in Sherlock?” John asked, licking his lips. “Join the club.”

“In _you_ , Doctor Watson.”

“Might be mistaken, but I _think_ you might need to get some priorities straight.”

“Sherlock I know.” Mycroft said, standing straighter. “ _You_ are a mystery.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Records from the last four months are clear. Residing in Hampshire for three months before coming here. Jumping between therapists for the lat three weeks, all mentioning “trust issues” and “PTSD.” Beyond that, there is no ‘John Watson.’ You don’t exist.”

“And yet I’m standing right in front of you.” He had to be careful. He had thought that the last four months of physical therapy, making himself clear in the residence there would avoid notice. Sherlock wasn’t that prominent of a figure yet, minor cases—always the ones in the way of Jim’s growing network. There was no reason anyone would look too deeply. But Jim would have been aware of Mycroft and his interests in his brother. Would have known the alarms it would raise by John going near. Was it another test? Or just Jim playing a game before John was thrown into prison and probably tortured to death to get information?

“So I see.” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed—probably looking for any tell if he was just as observant as his brother. “The question is: who are you and why?”

“Sherlock is the only reason I can stay in London. Simple as that.” John said, holding his head high. “And, _apparently_ you aren’t as all-knowing as you claim to be. Bit tragic, really.”

“Oh?”

John clenched his jaw. “Born near Essex. Dad was a deadbeat and left when I was born, my mom and sister were killed by a couple of thugs thinking they could get some easy money. You could easily look up Watson in newspapers and find that. It was a pretty popular article, if I remember right. ‘Family Massacred, Son Missing’—a load of bull to sell more papers with the headline. They sent me to a Barnado’s Home in Essex. Stayed there till the fire, where they kicked us all out on the streets. I was sixteen—nowhere else would take me. You have _any_ idea how hard it is to get a job without a birth certificate?” His hand clenched around his cane. Thank _God_ for Sebastian. That man was probably the only reason John was still standing here. “I don’t _exist_ because the government doesn’t seem to do much for those of us who ‘vanished.’”

His phone buzzed. Not Jim. Jim wouldn’t contact him if there was a threat. Nor would Sebastian. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, looking at the message.

 

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. If Inconvenient, come anyway. –SH_

John let out a small chuckle. Well, at least Sherlock had noticed his absence. He looked up at Mycroft, gaze firm.  “Keep your conspiracies among the politicians, won’t you?”

Mycroft hesitated. He _definitely_ saw a threat in John. Good. Maybe it would give him enough sense to back off. At least for the duration of this mission. “Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?” He asked.

“I really don’t think it’s any of you business.” John said, defiant to the end. This man was an enemy, and now he was in the way. John’s patience was running thin.

“It _could_ be.”

“Doubt it.”

The two glared at each other, a wordless battle between them. Mycroft expected everything to fall in front of him, every little detail under his control. John wouldn’t give in, wouldn’t relinquish more information than was necessary. They didn’t trust each other. And yet both were here for the same reason: Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was probably the only reason they didn’t kill each other yet.

“I’d tell you to stay away from him, but I don’t believe you would listen.” Mycroft said, as pretentious as ever.

“Until you give me a solid reason why I should, you’re absolutely right.”  He snorted. “If you think I’ll pass up this opportunity just because some strange man decided to threaten me, you’ll be sadly disappointed.”

“I see.” Mycroft turned on his heels, heading toward one of the numerous exits. His umbrella twirled in his hands, a playful gesture that was jarring in comparison to their conversation. He had given up. Conceded defeat for now. But, knowing the reputation of this man, he would continue to keep an eye on John. Lovely.

“I’d pick a side, Doctor Watson.” He said, voice echoing in the empty building. “When you’re with Sherlock, you’re in a war.”

 

\--

 

“Fuck.” John breathed, hands flat on the desk in his bed sit. He had restrained his shock, his fear, quite well. Had protected himself for now. But he could only hold a lid on it for so long. He was only human.

He rubbed his face, trying to calm himself. It was so close. He was so close to having everything ruined. How he had even gotten away was beyond him.

His phone vibrated on the desk.

 

_Could be dangerous._ _–SH_

A smile formed on his lips, transforming into a weak laugh. This man. This utter idiot. Clueless of what was going on, of the battle that occurred in his name. His ally (one he blissfully denied, according to the records) and his unknown enemy. Fighting while he was still doing God-knows-what. For now, John had been victorious. He could continue on.

He reached into the small drawer, pulling out a handgun. Something simple, the only thing that had been allowed him. A method of protecting and, when the time came, ending Sherlock Holmes. He placed it in his belt, pressed against the small of his back. Tucked under his shirt and jacket where it wouldn’t be noticed. With a deep breath, he left his place, going back into the battlefield.

 

\--

 

John took a bite of slightly-underdone pasta, taking a small chunk of the crusted chicken alongside it. This was such a quaint little restaurant, with tolerable food and an ambiance that needed work. But that was almost expected when owned by a man who thought romantic lighting was a tea-light and who had been spared the death penalty by committing petty theft (John was still trying to figure out how Sherlock had even wasted his time on _this_ one). Still, it had practically been all day since he had ate, and the fancy struck him. Made the food almost tolerable.

“Met a friend of yours today.” John muttered, before taking another bite. It would be interesting to gage Sherlock’s response—either Mycroft had already informed him, and Sherlock was being alert—even as he looked out the window for signs of the murderer—or Sherlock’s response would indicate how believable he would find his brother’s statements, should they come to light.

Sherlock glanced over at him curiously. “Friend?”

“Ah, sarcasm. Enemy.”

“Oh.” Sherlock turned his attention to the window for a few moments before redirecting to John again. “Which one?”

“What was the word?” John muttered, over another bite. “Arch-nemesis. He _was_ a bit dramatic about the whole thing.”

“Did he offer you money?”

The tone in Sherlock’s voice made it sound like that was usual.

“Yes.”

“Did you take it?”

“No.” He wouldn’t have—even if it was offered. Left too many openings, even if he did need it.

“Shame. We could have split it.”

John shrugged. He hadn’t considered that. He wondered if it would have increased Sherlock’s trust or estimation of John’s abilities, or make him less reliable. Even in hindsight, he wasn’t entirely sure.

“Normal people don’t have arch-nemesis.” John said, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock. A small jab. Sherlock, of course, was far from normal. Then again, not even Jim had someone who remotely fit that position. Of course, that was because no one was really skilled enough to be enough of a challenge. John assumed that Jim meant to see if Sherlock was just that figure. Jim certainly would be for Sherlock.

“What do they usually have?” Sherlock inquired, eyes still out the window. Waiting for whoever this murderer was.

“Friends. Girlfriends, boyfriends, people they like, those they hate.”

“Dull.”

“No girlfriend, then?” John asked. Of course not. What girl would even tolerate him for more than a week? John wasn’t even sure he could manage it, at this rate. Sure, Sherlock was fascinating, but he was also irritating as all hell. And that had yet to balance out.

“Not my area.”

John blinked. “Boyfriend, then?”

“No.”

“Ah, unattached.” As unlikely as Sherlock having a partner of some sort was, this meant that he wouldn’t have to deal with any intrusions. Any extras to the scene who could get in the way. “Good.” He said, a bit absentmindedly.

“John, um,” Sherlock turned his head, facing John. It was a bit weird, seeing him with that expression. “I consider myself married to my work. Though I’m flattered—“

“You think I was asking for _that_?” John snorted, hiding a smile. Yeah, no. This was the first day that they had spent together. And, even if John had spent a week with him, it would still be too soon to even have the inkling of desire for this arrogant and unthinking git. It wasn’t part of the job, and so it would never happen. “No. I’m not asking. No.”   

“Good.”

 

\--

 

John hadn’t felt so winded in a very long time. Actually, he couldn’t remember the last time he had been so exhausted. Running across London, over rooftops, through alleys. Just to pull over a cab that definitely didn’t hold the murderer. Just to run to avoid the police again. They didn’t rest till they were back at Baker Street, leaning against the wall just to catch their breath.

“That was,” John huffed, glancing over at Sherlock as he still worked to get his breathing back to normal, “the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“I doubt that.”

John laughed, surprised that Sherlock was quick to join. He didn’t take Sherlock for the laughing sort. That was interesting. Still, he did have a point. John had done a lot of ridiculous things in his life. But this, this was definitely at the top. Everything he did had a point, an order or mission behind it. This had just become utter frivolousness, with no achieved goal, no direction. Maybe that’s why it had been fun.

He paused. “Shouldn’t we be back at the restaurant?” After all, they were there to find a murderer. Just because this time had been a fluke, didn’t mean that the murderer still wouldn’t go there.

“They can keep an eye out.” Sherlock muttered. “It was a long shot.”

John blinked. “So why were we there?”

“To prove a point.” Sherlock glanced down, looking at John as the other looked at him in utter confusion. “About you.”

“Me?”

A smile played on Sherlock’s features as there was a knocking at the door. John, confused, stared at the other as he tried to discern Sherlock’s meaning. But it was lost to him. His mind couldn’t even work over the possibilities. Pressing his lips together, he turned to the door.

“Sherlock said you forgot this.” Angelo said, holding out John’s cane.

John blinked. He hadn’t even noticed. Ran all the way across town, full speed, chasing after a bloody car, and he didn’t notice. Even now, as he realized it, there was nothing. No pain, no need to rest on something. Just like that, his leg was fine. No amount of determination, of telling himself the truth, of working through it helped at all. All Sherlock had to do was dash about like a madman, and it was cured.

He reached for the cane. “Thank you.” He said, giving a small nod to Angelo before shutting the door. He stared at it in his hands. Even now, there was nothing. No trace of pain, no inclination to use the damned thing. He was fine. He looked up at Sherlock in astonishment.

The smug bastard just smiled down at him from the top of the stairs.

 

\--

 

It was interesting, seeing Sherlock move quickly from arrogant annoyance to ball of fury. John didn’t expect such an emotional range. It was interesting. What _wasn’t_ interesting, however, was that Sherlock ran off again. With the murderer. Of course. Who wouldn’t expect Sherlock to go gallivanting about without telling anyone what was going on in his head?

John watched the computer as it updated the location in the cab. Constantly moving, no stop yet. The police hardly listened, but John had at least managed to get a hold of Lestrade. He wasn’t the best option, but the only one who would listen to John. The only one who actually _bloody_ understood what John was saying without jumping from place to place.

John signaled for the cabbie to take another turn. The location on the computer had stopped. So either it had finally come to an end, or the murderer had thrown the phone out the window. Still a chance. Jut a small one that Sherlock was still alive. That he hadn’t yet fallen victim to the man he had been searching for.

_“If you were dying,” Sherlock had said, staring at John, “if you’d been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say?”_

_“Please, God, let me live.” John had spoken, without even a thought. A mistake._

_One that Sherlock missed. “Use your imagination!”_

_John’s throat had tightened. “I really don’t_ have _to.”_

_There was a look on Sherlock’s face. It was brief, fleeting. But it was there. John saw it. Not pity, nor regret, understanding. Sherlock had seen something in John. Maybe he understood the injury—the betrayal, the fact that John had been so certain he was going to die. Sherlock, the self-declared sociopath, saw something. For a moment, they were almost on the same page._

_And then he went and continued his deductions. Like there was nothing in those few moments. It was fine—perfect, actually. In the company of a bunch of officers, it was better that way. But what was it? What was it that Sherlock saw?_

“You better still be alive, Holmes.” John muttered under his breath.

 

\--

 

He was almost out of breath. Between two buildings, _two_ (thank you, technology, for being so _damn_ specific), John had been forced to choose. He ran through the halls, looking through every corridor, every floor. No sign of Sherlock Holmes.

“Sherlock!” John called, trying to get something. He better not be dead. Couldn’t be. He pushed through a hall, on to the next floor. There he saw it. Sherlock Holmes. Standing there. Pill in his hand, looking at it. Going to take the damn pill.

“Fuck!” John growled, the pill so close to Sherlock’s mouth. So close to the bastard taking his own life.

_Protect him_. That had been the charge. John wanted to shoot the moron in the back of his head. He grasped his gun, thankful for it. And fired.

It hit the murderer in his chest. Sherlock dropped the pill and John fled, running downstairs and behind a building, glad that the police hadn’t yet arrived. He held his face, returning the gun to its hiding spot. It was good that this place was abandoned. Fortunate. He exhaled slowly. His head was pounding. This was going to be more of a wear on his system than he had anticipated.

Rubbing his face, he looked around the corner. The police were coming, parked in front of the building. John had led them there, and at the very least Lestrade would expect him there. He just wanted to go to sleep. Forget this stuff. But it was impossible. It would never happen.

No reason to bemoan that, not now. That was to be saved for when he was lying awake and unable to sleep. Or when he was staring into a hot teacup and waiting for the liquid to cool. Not for when he was out in the cold evening air, waiting for Sherlock to come out of that damn building and speak with the police. Surely he would be able to figure out who fired the gun. He vaguely wondered if Sherlock would give his name to the police, or appreciate the fact that John saved his life. Maybe he would wait it out and hold it over John’s head forever. That would be interesting. Well, at least until John was stuck in prison. He wondered how much time he might serve for killing a murderer.

With a sigh, he stepped out, following the line of the cars and the barrier of the police tape. He had been out for too long—the police were fast, but not that fast. He sighed.

There was Sherlock, wrapped in a shock blanket and arguing with Lestrade. He could have been part of the small and growing crowd all along and they wouldn’t have noticed. That was good. He vaguely wondered what they were talking about.

Then Sherlock caught his eye. Or he caught Sherlock’s. He ignored Lestrade for a moment, and with a wave of his hand and some odd comment walked off. Lestrade looked less than pleased, but he didn’t seem to make any attempts to restrain Sherlock. As Sherlock came up, he tossed the hideous blanket into a nearby police car, ducking under the tape.

“Glad to see you’re still alive.” John said, giving a small smile.

Sherlock watched him for a moment. “Good shot.”

So he knew. He had determined it, knew without even showing any sign of looking. John tried to keep his nerves straight, to resist the urge to clench his fists or use any other tells. His gaze flicked to the window of the building. “Must have been.”

“ _You’d_ know.”

John swallowed, glancing at Sherlock. He looked terribly serious, not even searching to see if there was a doubt. He already knew. John chose to say nothing, afraid of what else he might give away.

“You need to get the powder burns off your fingers.” Sherlock said, straightening his shoulders. “I don’t suppose you’d serve time, but it would be best to avoid the court case.”

John tried to hide the wave of relief that went through his body. Sherlock was helping. That was unexpected, but appreciated. The corner of his lip twitched as he tried to suppress a smile. Normal people didn’t smile after committing murder.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked. Was that concern?

John coughed and looked away, shifting on his feet. “Of course I’m all right.”

“You _have_ just killed a man.”

“Yes . . .” What was one man? Compared to the dozens he had killed throughout his life, what did it matter to add one more to the list? He had been killing since he was a kid. Yet it had always affected him. Killing this man, this criminal, this tiny little insignificant thread on Moriarty’s web, it really meant nothing. He felt nothing. For once, no remorse. No self-hatred. Yes, he had done his job and saved Sherlock, but . . . doing his job was supposed to bring him one step further into hell. But he was fine. “That’s true, isn’t it?”

Sherlock was silent. John could feel his eyes on him, that digging and prodding stare. He lacked the desire to look up at it. Maybe he wanted to know why John was okay with it. Why John would take out a murderer on his behalf and have no side-effects.

Oh. That’s what it was. Why John felt nothing. The people he killed before, they had been threads once, too. But they always wanted to escape. Or they were connected in some intentional way. Always, they were more innocent than John. Less deserving to die. This man, he wasn’t like that. That was why he felt nothing. It was so simple. “But it wasn’t like he was the epitome of a decent fellow.”

“No. He really wasn’t, was he?” Sherlock replied. John glanced up, seeing the faintest trace of a smile.

“ _Terrible_ cabbie.” John continued, letting his relief bring him to a better mood. He walked alongside Sherlock as they moved away from the crime scene.

“You should have seen the route he took to get me here.”   

John smiled. An actual smile. “You’re too cheery.” He commented lightly. “Why _is_ that?”

“Moriarty.” Sherlock said simply.

John could feel the blood rush from his face. The shot he made wasn’t perfectly lethal. The cabbie could have had no more than a minute left in his life. Was that enough to let Sherlock in on the big secret? No. It meant that Jim would have told him things, about other parts of his web. But Jim had always intended the cabbie to be a test—a challenge to see both of their skill.

“What’s Moriarty?” He forced himself to ask.

“I’ve no idea.” Sherlock said, looking at the street ahead of him. He looked absolutely jubilant at the prospect of something new. The smile on his face could almost make one forget how much of an arrogant bastard he was, or how irritating it would be to live with him. Almost. But, John realized, it might not actually be so bad. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight anachronism with the orphanage noted. It closed in 1977, but for John to be there it would have to close later than that. He’s either hoping that Mycroft doesn’t notice, or we tweak history and let the thing stay open later. Either way I’m messing it up a bit with the “fire.” This chapter followed the show pretty closely, but next chapter's gonna have a bit of a turn; look forward to it! Comments still appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m moving events around. So A Scandal in Belgravia will take place before the Great Game. (Yes that means the Great Game, and all my fun, will be in the next--and final--chapter)

 

_“It’s been such a_ long _time, hasn’t it, Watson?” A voice purred in his ear, the pressure of their body heavy on his chest. John couldn’t move his arms or his legs. His body was stuck. He couldn’t escape. He let out a shaky breath._

_Jim rose slightly, looking down into John’s eyes. His smile was cruel, even as he cupped John’s cheek. “Oh, just_ wait _until this job is done. The_ rewards _I have in mind for_ you _.”_

_Images flashed through his mind. Of flesh being sliced as Jim tried to make more art from what unscarred skin remained. Of fingers being pressed against the new cuts, digging into them and making them throb in pain. Of being forced to his hands and knees, put into hours of painful hell. Of bites and clawing. Of pain that was hidden under the guise of pleasure. Of punishment that accompanied the slightest mistake. Of the hell that it was to be with Jim._

_Jim leaned forward, lips returning to John’s throat. Light kisses were followed by painful bites. He winced. “I don’t—I don’t want to.” He gasped._

_“You chose it.” The Man removed his lips from John’s neck, looking down at him. Tilting his head just so slightly, eyes with that beautiful look that they had, that he always directed toward John. His hand brushed over John’s cheek in a gentle caress._

_“I didn’t . . .”John sighed, leaning into The Man’s hand. The familiar feeling sending him back. Making him want to lift his too-heavy arms an embrace him, pull him close. Wrap his arms and legs around the other, moaning and loving. Whispering all those secrets while lips pressed to his skin._

_“You did.” Despite the harsh words, his tone was so soft and sweet. So kind to his precious, fragile lover. Never changing. “I gave you the choice.”_

_“I didn’t even_ know _the choice_ existed _.”_

_“You could have run away with me. Had everything you ever wanted. Or you could have obeyed Jim. You made your choice.”_

_“I . . .” John didn’t have an answer. He didn’t know why he hadn’t run away. Why he didn’t escape._

_“It’s okay.” The Man pressed a kiss to John’s jaw, sweet and tender. His hands cupped John’s jaw, thumbs running over his cheeks in soft circles. “I get it, I do.”_

_“I . . .” Why did he know and John didn’t? He wanted to know. Needed to know. Why he was still here. Why he screwed up so badly. Why he couldn’t escape. Why he never wanted to. Why, even now, even after everything, he knew he would go back when the job was done._

_The Man cut off John’s words with a kiss. His tongue stroked John’s, so soft and loving. Mapping the mouth that would never be his again, drawing a single moan from John._

_“It’s obvious why, really.” Sherlock said, parting from John’s lips. “You’re pathetic. You claim a desire to escape, but you fear the consequences of it.”_

_“I’m not afraid.” John protested._

_“You are.” Sherlock smirked. “You know what to expect when you’re with Jim. You know the pain, and you know you’ll be used. What you fear isn’t physical. And it’s pathetic.”_

_John opened his mouth. This was absurd. That couldn’t be it. He navigated the darkest parts of the underworld, dealt with the cruelest psychotic known to man, knew all there was to know about protecting himself. It wasn’t fear. It couldn’t be._

_“Think about it. It didn’t affect you until_ he _came into your life.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, tilting John’s head upward. “And that’s why you killed him. That’s why you ran away. Because you’ll be Jim’s until the day you die--presumably by his hands.”_

_“I—“_

_“It’s fine.” Sherlock said, leaning and pressing a kiss to John’s shoulder. “When you get the order to kill me—and you will—you’ll do it, too. And you’ll go right back to him. Because that’s just who you are.”_

John awoke with a start. The sun had yet to rise, but it was no longer nighttime. And, even if it was the middle of the night, there was no way he was going to go back to sleep. Rubbing his face, he sighed in aggravation and sat up. Maybe a cuppa or five would help keep him up through the day.

After flicking on the kettle and waiting for the water to boil, he fell into his chair. He was exhausted, drained. The dreams had made it quite miserable, cutting any rest he got in half. The warm mug in his hand would help supply some of the energy, but surely he couldn’t go on like this.

He opened his laptop, logging into his blog. He had never had this problem before. Months of living in with people he had tricked, who he planned to kill once the work was over—not once was he plagued by nightmares. He hardly ever dreamt. But in the nearly two months since he had stayed with Sherlock, they hardly stopped. Various nightmares, all coming down to the same thing. When the day came, and he had to kill Sherlock, he would have to go back to Jim. And, for once, he couldn’t remain neutral about the thought. How long would it be? Weeks? Months? He had become fond of being Sherlock’s protector. To go against that instinct, he supposed, was what frightened him. To go from ally to enemy.

Sighing, John searched the comments on his blog. Stamford made a comment here or there. Some odd idiot who thought he was clever was trying to pick a fight with everyone (probably thought himself as the next Sherlock Holmes). Mrs. Hudson made a remark, consistently reminding John who she was (it was kind of endearing, in a way). Sherlock made some sharp comment about the quality of the entries John wrote—how they were too fanciful or romantic. John consistently resisted the urge to roll his eyes; if he had any say in it, he would have simply stuck to the facts. But Jim enjoyed a good story, and John’s reports were to fit that model. He searched through his posts, looking for one particular person.

_Anonymous 07 February 16:09:_

_I do hope we’ll meet one day. He’s a genius._

One day. Indeed, it had been quite some time since the case with the woman in pink, but there was no particular urgency there. Jim was setting up God-knows-what, and at the end, there would be Sherlock. Those two would have their meeting. They would clash. That was part of their game. Just a game Sherlock didn’t know much about.

 

_Anonymous 28 March 14:06:_

_Oh, yes. Bravo. Keep up the good work, boys._

A response to their latest case. No hint. No sign that it would be soon, or that it was still far off. But, the more Jim was impressed, the more likely it would be that he would want the confrontation. That he would want the game of mental chess—and would destroy Sherlock in the process. He still had time, didn’t he?

“What are you doing?” Sherlock yawned, entering the room in little more than the sheet.

John glanced at him, returning his attention to the computer as he typed out a short response to something Stamford said. “Blog.”

“For what?”

“Latest case. I think,” John leaned back in his chair, thinking, “I’ll call it ‘The Geek Interpreter.’”

“What does it need a title for?” Sherlock huffed, moving into his chair. John glanced up at him, knowing quite well that there was nothing underneath. Well, at least he was covered in something _this_ time. Of all his social ineptitudes, there were a few that not even John knew how to properly handle.

John smiled, ignoring him. They must have had this argument a hundred times. Mostly because Sherlock didn’t understand why John had to record everything—and because it got considerably more attention than his own. The latter was easier to explain (after all, what self-loathing idiot would actually want to read over a catalogue of different types of grass and tobacco ash and all other sorts of ridiculous things?). The former he had to come up with a good excuse for. He was actually proud of that.

It was good for customers. That was his excuse. One that had, in a way, become increasingly true. More people were visiting the blog per day, and more people were taking an interest in getting Sherlock Holmes to solve their cases. John teased about the fact that Sherlock shouldn’t complain about being bored--even when he did decline more than half of his clients, there was still no more than a day’s gap between cases. Of course, John’s irritation came a bit with the whole media now wanting a piece of Sherlock Holmes, and John was wary about having his face in the papers. It could end very poorly.

After all, if Sherlock was doing well enough to get into the media, he could become a bigger target. People could start getting curious about his partner’s history, which would be even worse. Or, worst of all, Jim would feel like Sherlock was finally on his level. As connected in this world as Jim was in the underground network. And then . . . a showdown—Sherlock’s death. The more popular Sherlock was, the closer it seemed that day was. And that was a bit worrisome.

The doorbell rang and his eyes flicked in the direction of the door. Sherlock wasn’t even paying attention, thinking about God-knows-what.

“Didn’t you have a case today?” John asked, glancing up from the computer.

“It was a six.” Sherlock responded, wrapping the sheet tighter around himself.

John looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. His eyes flicked to the door when the doorbell rang once more. More urgent, rings more frequent. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t in, so they wouldn’t be let in. At this rate, it was unlikely that the person would leave. But John really had no desire or energy to answer it.

“I don’t leave the flat unless it’s a seven.”

John shook his head, closing his laptop. “You could’ve just said that you declined.”

A smile played on the corner of Sherlock’s lips.  His gaze flicked to the door, and John followed. Two suited men stood at the entrance. John hadn’t even heard them—or he was too distracted to keep his senses aware. It appeared that staying here was a minor weakness. His eyes flicked over their uniforms and posture. Government, definitely. His senses instantly became hyper alert, wary of what would happen next. He didn’t even have his gun on him, having left it in his room—thinking it was unnecessary unless he was leaving the flat. God, he had gone soft.

“His room’s in the back.” The man nodded toward the kitchen. John let a bit of tension fade; that wasn’t his room—it was Sherlock’s. “Get him some clothes.”

John glanced over at Sherlock. He didn’t look particularly alarmed. Disinterested, really. “Who the hell are you?” He asked, looking back to the men. One of them had Sherlock’s clothes folded neatly in his arms.

“You’ll be coming with us.” The man said, dropping the clothes on the table in front of Sherlock. “Where you’re going, you’ll want to be dressed.”

Sherlock made no motion to do so. “Oh, I know _exactly_ where I’m going.”

 

John shouldn’t have been surprised that they were taken to Buckingham Palace. Or that Mycroft was there. Or that Sherlock was adamant on staying in the sheet. Or that they had taken it upon themselves to be utter irritants to Mycroft, breaking into giggles and laughing at the utter ridiculousness of the situation.

What did surprise him was that Mycroft was so intent on being heard that he nearly stripped Sherlock of all cover in public. He almost wondered if Sherlock would leave completely naked. That would be quite a sight, and quite an article. And, though Mycroft’s methods weren’t those that John had adopted to get Sherlock to actually be decent to deal with, they were effective.

Leave it to Sherlock to get taken into this case. As John listened to the details (photographs, something trivial really, to someone who thrived on not having a reputation. Deadly for someone who made their living on it), his mind flicked to the woman in question. The Dominatrix. Irene Adler. The name seemed familiar, but never a face attached to it. So he recognized her in passing—a name Jim or Sebastian would have mentioned only once. So she was something to entertain Jim for only a short time.

It was an odd order of events after that. From the palace they went to her place. Well, a few streets off, where Sherlock thought it would be clever to act as a wounded victim. John eagerly obliged to adding the decoration. Perhaps it was bad that he caught the other off guard by making it more convincing.

 

He grabbed a first aid kit from the kitchen. This was ridiculous. If the woman worked with Jim, at any point, then she wasn’t an idiot. She probably knew all-too-well who Sherlock was. And, coincidentally, to the hands-off policy. So it couldn’t go too wrong. Well, hopefully. At the very least, she wouldn’t kill him.

He walked back to the room. “This should do it.” He said, looking at the items in his hand. At least keep up the act and treat the minor cut. His eyes lifted up, to find quite an interesting scene. She was very much naked, standing mere inches from Sherlock. She had the silly plastic part of Sherlock’s outfit in his mouth, so close to him that he had to have quite a decent view of her breasts. Too bad the act wasted on the wrong person.

Miss Adler looked at John, eyes scanning over him. It was a bit off-putting. He knew that gaze, the feel of it. He knew _exactly_ what was in her head.

He stood strong against it, pretending that he hadn’t even noticed. “I missed something, haven’t I?”

She smiled, removing the silly plastic thing from her teeth. She turned on her heels, moving to the chair in the opposite end of the room. She sat in a way that made her features all the more obvious. Sherlock fidgeted uncomfortably in the seat. Maybe it wasn’t as much of a waste as John had assumed.

John bit the inside of his cheek. Why _was_ it that Sherlock was so interested? He _had_ taken on this case quite eagerly, once he learned what it entailed. A fascination with her, then? His unease was alarming as well. He had always assumed that Sherlock was asexual. It was entirely possible that he was wrong.

“Do you know the problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?” She asked, smiling. “However you try, it’s always a self-portrait.”

John straightened slightly.

She hummed. “ _Somebody_ loves you. If I had to punch that face, I’d avoid your nose and teeth, too.”

She pointedly looked to John. It was clear then, who the conversation was really for. But why him? Unless she knew more than she let on—those more connected to Jim knew who John was and knew his purpose. She was challenging him. Maybe even trying to ruin his job—if Sherlock saw through the disguise, it would be over. A test then, planted by Jim. To see if John had lost his touch, or if Sherlock was so oblivious that there was no hope.

“It’s a bit cool in here.” John said lightly. “You might benefit putting something on.”

“Why?” Oh, as annoying as could be, indeed. “Do you feel exposed?”

Yes. Very much. He knew the limits of disguises, and he knew the threat of what would happen if his fell through. He knew his own mind quite well. Her act of dangling it in front of Sherlock, tying to make him bite, made him feel vulnerable. Weak and incapable.

“I don’t think John knows where to look.” Sherlock said, Rising to offer his coat to her.

Her smile widened. “Oh, I think he knows _exactly_ where. You, on the other hand, I’m not so sure about.”

“If I wanted to look at naked women, I’d borrow John’s laptop.” Sherlock said simply, keeping his gaze averted from her as she took his coat and changed.

John shook his head. It would have been more obvious of Sherlock if he had _virgin_ written on his forehead. “You _do_ borrow my laptop.” He said, crossing his arms. He was glad that Sebastian had thought everything through—putting so many normal things on there that the important stuff was hidden in layers of useless trash.

“I confiscate it.”

“That’s hardly any better. “ He shook his head, watching as the other moved to the fireplace.

 

The two geniuses began to talk, Sherlock showing his obviousness in every feasible way. It was irritating, and John decided to stop paying attention.

“John.” Sherlock said, after babbling away for a short time. “Man the door. Let no one in.”

John glanced up at him, attention drawn. Ah, so that was his plan. He nodded, leaving to take care of the business. He shut the door behind him, glancing about. The hall was empty. Good. He reached for a magazine and the lighter that Sherlock had swiped from the man back at the palace.

 As he lit it, he briefly wondered if the entire thing was just an act to buy time. Now wouldn’t _that_ be amusing. If that was the case, Sherlock was very good at playing the virgin.

The fire alarm went off, and John listened to the rustle inside. He tried to put out the magazine so the alarm would stop, but it was being less than cooperative.

Until something bigger caught his attention. Footsteps. Not mild, not even attempting to be quiet—drawn by the alarm. He reached back for his gun, seeing a single man enter the hall. The stranger shot at the fire alarm, effectively turning it off before pointing the gun at John.

“Thank you.” John said, with a small smile.

He could take him, easily. Perhaps he’d get a bullet wound to the arm, or a simple grazing. Worth it, since the man would be dead in a few seconds. But two others were in short order behind. Two he could handle on his own in these corridors. Three would be nearly impossible. He raised his hands in submission. And mentally killed the man who grabbed him by the collar.

 

Used as a hostage. As a bloody hostage. First insulted by Miss Adler, then by these American idiots. His will to kill had been stifled by years of regret, and even more by the months with Sherlock. It was starting to rise again.  

Fortunately, Sherlock was observant. Using Miss Adler’s trap to turn the tables. Leaving one man dead and two unconscious, soon to be taken by the police. To Sherlock’s command, he checked the other rooms. An obvious entrance. Sherlock probably already knew, and if there was a threat, it would already be here. So why send John away? It didn’t make sense. Unless, unless he wanted private time with Miss Adler. That would be . . . very dangerous.

 

He returned to the room, only to find Sherlock on the floor, mumbling something incoherent. A syringe lay on the floor, the woman sitting on the edge of the windowsill. He knelt by Sherlock, looking at the syringe. He knew this implementation, these effects. By now, it was likely the drug was effective enough where Sherlock wouldn’t remember a thing.

“So you beat him.” He said simply, looking at her.

“It’s not that hard.” She smiled. “Fun though. And I couldn’t miss a chance at seeing you in action.”

“I doubt you’re impressed.”

“Quite the contrary.” She smiled, listening to the sirens getting closer. “So impressed that I could offer you a treat next time you’re free.”

“Not interested.”

“Aww, and I heard that was your thing.” Her smile turned cold. “But only Moriarty’s, I suppose. His possession and his alone. Personally marked, right? Like putting your name on your favorite pants when you want to make sure no one else wears them, no matter how thin they get. Oh, just _imagine_ how angry he’d be if he learned of the thoughts you’ve had of your playfellow.”

John glared at her. He knew his place. Nothing and no one would ever let him forget it. “Don’t you need to escape the cops or something?”

 

 

John let the hot water run over him. Sometimes he would do it until the heat ran out, until it turned icy and frigid and utterly painful. And then he would stay in there a bit longer. Sometimes Sherlock commented on it. Lately, he hadn’t noticed. Sherlock . . . hadn’t really noticed much of anything. He was simply running the motions. It was subtle, but John could tell.

And he knew the reason. Irene Adler was dead. Well, this was the second time, actually. The first, John could see it in Sherlock. Could see what it did to him. He had met Miss Adler for no more than an hour. And yet he had been changed by her death. The Woman (as Sherlock referred to her) who understood him and used it for her advantage. The woman who had bested him. John knew quite well what that meant.

When she returned, it was only temporary. John had warned her. He threatened her—imagine, threatening someone who was working for Jim—but it was under the reasoning that he was protecting Sherlock. If she compromised him by playing her stupid little game, then she was threatening Jim’s. And it was John’s job to prevent that. She had . . . an entirely different idea. A ridiculous idea for a clever woman.

The water was starting to turn cold. He sighed, turning it off and just standing there. Resting his head against the bathroom wall, watching as the water dripped down his face and fell into the drain.

She was dead for certain now. Both Sebastian and Mycroft had confirmed it. Sebastian had been utterly bored with the thought, glad that the irritating woman was gone. Mycroft had larger concerns; always the worried older brother, he wanted John to figure out how best to handle this. It was funny how his trust had changed, since he knew John to be the only one actually decently capable of reaching Sherlock.

He had lied to Sherlock. Told the other that she was alive and away. He knew that Sherlock loved Irene. His change in mood, eagerness to impress her, the utter fascination—they were clear signs. He didn’t pay attention to anyone when their use was done, and yet he had still been enthralled by her. So John decided to soften the blow. Either way, he would never see her again.

Since then, Sherlock hadn’t said much. It had been two weeks since he had last seen the Woman, one week since she was reported as dead. Sherlock should have been glad that she was alive. Perhaps he saw through the lie. It would be a first—there were so many that John used, always the convincing liar. It would make his trust in John dwindle, would make him distant, detached. After all, John had lied about the fate of a woman he loved. What else would John lie to him about?

He ran his fingers through his hair, water dripping on the tile as he stepped out of the shower. He didn’t want to do this anymore. Didn’t want to have to deal with the constant lies, with always having to maneuver. To make Sherlock nothing more than an instrument for Jim’s entertainment. He was tired and he was drained, physically and emotionally. He just wanted to get away. To just hide away, get away from everything he had to do, everything he could possibly feel. But there wasn’t an escape. Jim had given him this job and expected him to complete it; to leave would result in both John’s and Sherlock’s premature deaths. And John couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t do that.

He dried off, sighing. He was in one hell of a predicament. And the worst hadn’t even started yet. He reached for his clothes, only to find air. He huffed, remembering that he had left them on his bed. That he was quite out of his mind after another nightmare. That he had come to the shower, mind clouded and just trying to find some distraction. Only to be entangled in more thoughts. He would probably be up for the remainder of the night.

Rubbing his face, he wrapped the towel around his waist. Sherlock had actually gone to bed tonight. Oddly enough, he had actually gone to bed every night this week. The shower might have kept him awake for a little while, since it was late and considerably unusual, but with how long John had spent in there, he would have gone back to sleep. Or, he would have gotten up, disturbed by the noise and determining that it would just be best to get back to work. Or to go on the sofa and zone off there. Though it was the least appealing of the potentials, it was more likely that Sherlock would be in his “mind palace” and wouldn’t even notice John passing through the living room into his own room. John would simply have to stay in his room until morning came, which wasn’t the most unappealing thing he could possibly deal with. 

He stepped out of the bathroom, rolling his neck to stretch it a bit as he shut the door behind him. He paused when he realized that he wasn’t alone. Instinct told him to fight and to rid of the unexpected intruder, but he quickly suppressed it. Taking a deep breath, he turned his head toward Sherlock’s room. The too-pale man was simply standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. In only his pants and watching John very carefully.

John swallowed, uncomfortable by the gaze. It was sending off too many alarms, too many controlled instincts. “You okay?” He asked lightly.

Sherlock said nothing, merely staring at him. His eyes started to move, running over John’s body. Over every part of him.

John titled his head, confused. Sherlock had seen him before. Never quite as exposed as this, but John was certain that the other could imagine what his body looked like if he wanted to. By the way his clothes fit to him or something. It wouldn’t be all that surprising. Perhaps Sherlock was falling asleep, or worse, sleep-walking (he vaguely wondered if Sherlock could solve crimes like that). He took a tentative step closer. “Sherlock. Are you alright?” He lifted his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder, to try to lead the other back to bed.

Sherlock’s gaze snapped to John’s, making John freeze. There was fury in his eyes, something John hadn’t really seen directed at himself before. Sure, Sherlock had been angry, would make sharp remarks. But this was actual _fury_. The same kind he directed at the men who hurt Mrs. Hudson before he threw a man out the window. John’s mind flicked through the things he had done, through what the possibilities could be.

“Where did those scars come from?” Sherlock asked, voice low.

John stared at him for a minute, trying to process it. He followed where Sherlock’s gaze had been, realizing. It had been so long since he had to think about them, since he had to worry about how any new inflictions would cause new damage. He had easily worked with the habit of not looking into the mirror while undressed, and his mind ignored the scars that laced his arms. His clothes always covered his skin, so he never had to be taken off guard by them. His mind flashed back to those days, to the nightmares that still plagued him. He winced.

“I was a soldier, Sherlock. Things happen.” He said finally, blinking away the thoughts. Even though Sherlock could deduce whatever he would, John could skew the data. “You know that.”

“Those aren’t battle wounds.” Sherlock replied stubbornly. Right. There was no convincing him otherwise when he was in a rage. But John couldn’t fathom why. Why would it concern him?

“Different kind of battle.” Really, he just didn’t have the energy for it. No energy to fight, or to lie. To weave another story and make Sherlock believe whatever the hell John wanted him to believe. He just wanted to sit, to just let his mind be empty. To not have to think or deal with this.

“John—“

John cut him off, spinning Sherlock around and pushing him toward his bed. “Just go back to sleep.” He had done this when the other was drugged, when Sherlock was trying to fight what Irene had done to him. He pushed the other onto his bed, huffing at the damn exertion of it all. For being so skinny, he was fairly heavy. At least Sherlock was still complying. Had he struggled, John figured he would have wasted so much energy, and lost his towel and what remained of his dignity. Sighing, John stood there for a minute, trying to catch his breath. “Go back to sleep.” He huffed.

Sherlock defiantly sat up on his bed, long arms reaching out and catching one of John’s, pulling him closer. The distance between them was so minimal, and John could count on one hand the times they had been closer. John made a small struggle to escape his grasp, freezing when the other placed his hand on John’s hip.

Sherlock’s fingers brushed over the scar that sat right above the line of his towel. The mark that made John belong to Jim. The branding that he had received the first time he had run away.

“Do not call it love.” Sherlock said, voice softening.

“I wasn’t.” John replied. When Jim touched it, it felt like he was on fire. His body being branded again and again. The pain had been so infused into his mind that he could associate nothing else with being touched there. And Jim had always known that, always pressing and reminding John of who he was. What he was. A possession.

But Sherlock’s touch was light, soft. When his fingers brushed over the mark, examining it, there was nothing. John couldn’t even recall the pain. He tried, but there was nothing. Just Sherlock’s unusual softness. Sherlock was tracing over it again and again, each time just somehow more soothing than the last.

“Do you know anything about love?” Sherlock asked, eyes flicking from the scar to look up at John.

“No.” John said simply. He didn’t. He knew that it was a hindrance, that it got in the way of things. That it caused an imbalance between his job and his own self-satisfaction. He had worked hard to bar his mind from love, from the damning notion. “It’s just . . . a chemical defect.”

Jim had worked hard to ingrain it into his head, to remove any chance of betrayal for the mere whim of a few chemicals.

The corners of Sherlock’s lips twitched up into a small smile. John couldn’t fathom why. He was merely repeating Jim’s words, at a loss for his own. Lost in what he really thought, clinging to whatever had been giving to him, hoping that he wouldn’t fall.

Sherlock lightly tugged on John’s arm, pulling him closer as he put a hand on the back of John’s neck. For just the slightest moment, their lips connected.

John froze, staring at the other.

Sherlock’s gaze swept over John. Interested. Curious. “So that causes nothing?”

John swallowed, heartbeat thrumming in his ears. He struggled to repress all thoughts, everything his mind jumped to. Every avenue that had been sealed by Jim. It was an experiment, he reminded himself. Sherlock was trying to determine what love was. Surely he was just trying to see if he had ever loved the Woman, using John as the only sample available to him.

John’s body betrayed him. His hands cupped Sherlock’s cheeks, keeping his chin tilted upward and taking his lips again. He could feel Sherlock’s gentleness into the kiss, and tried to keep it soft. Giving Sherlock enough chance to escape.

But he wasn’t. No, after the mere moment of reluctance, Sherlock began to press into the kiss, his fingers on John’s neck curling upward and playing with the ends of his hair. It sent a shiver down John’s spine. He slowly traced his tongue on Sherlock’s bottom lip, over the small cracks from a lack of care. He was gentle, finding himself afraid that he might break the other. Sherlock parted his lips on a sigh, tongue meekly meeting John’s. John smiled, and, with a slight moan, entwined his tongue with Sherlock’s. Gently stroking and caressing it, slowly exploring the other’s mouth. Taking in Sherlock’s taste, his warmth, the feel of his fingers in his hair and on his—

John pulled away, panting, mind taking over once more. He had been ordered to protect Sherlock, to keep him sharp for the Game. Sentiment was a weakness, it was something to be exploited. John, by doing this, was directly weakening Sherlock; he was defying Jim’s orders. He was always supposed to have control of his own actions, always put the mission first. What the _hell_ was he doing?

Sherlock’s grip firmed, pulling John back close, muttering against his lips. “It appears the Woman has reactivated something I thought deleted long ago.”

John stiffened. “You should have gone to her, then.” He could feel the twinge of jealousy on his tongue, seeping through his words. “She offered a lot, if I remember right. Probably would have been thrilled.”

Sherlock hummed. A low sound that rolled through John to his core. “Not my type.”

“ _You_ have a type?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched, a smirk growing. “Someone I trust not to stab me in the back.”

“ _That’s_ a rare breed.”

There was silence. “There’s you.”

Sherlock said it so confidently. The way he looked at John just had that flicker of absolute trust, that John was the only person in the world he could actually rely on. The only one who would look at him as he was, and would rather jump in front of a bullet than betray his best friend. John had seen it in his eyes every so often, or in the way he gave instructions and just knew that John would follow and join him. But it was his job. His job to follow the other, to ensure that everything was right. It was only second nature to follow along with what Sherlock said. But that wasn’t it. John could have refused a thousand times, just acting like his guard. He didn’t need to accompany the other’s plans, to risk his sanity for something stupid. He chose to. He followed Sherlock because he wanted to.

A smile formed on his lips. “Yeah. There’s me.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and the like for the blog were found and modified here: http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk If you ever have free time read it because it’s hilarious
> 
> As always, comments are really appreciated. They're my motivation to keep going.


	6. Chapter 6

“There’s you.”

 “Yeah. There’s me.”

John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s again, gently lowering the other onto the bed. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders, his fingers tracing along John’s back, light enough to send chills down his spine. Between hurried breaths, John fell into the habit of just gently stroking Sherlock’s tongue with his while the other eagerly explored his mouth.

When they had to part to get fuller breaths, John lightly pecked Sherlock’s bottom lip before tracing kisses along his jaw, following the line along his throat. Sherlock moaned lightly, fingers gripping John’s hair as the other latched to a spot on his collarbone. He sucked at the skin, listening to the other’s short sighs and light moans. Pressing a light kiss to the area, he looked at the mark already forming with a bit of pride.

Sherlock smiled, arms firming their hold around John’s neck to pull him onto the bed and on Sherlock. John quickly adjusted so he didn’t squish the other, knees propped near Sherlock’s hips, arm’s by Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock’s fingers brushed down John’s chest, the tips exploring the crisscrossing lines of John’s scars. He looked fascinated, cataloguing each one. It felt like with each mark he could see a different story—even the ones John didn’t remember. And, knowing Sherlock, it was entirely possible.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked lower. “Your towel fell off.” He murmured, voice low and practically rumbling through John. 

“Wha?” John glanced down. He hadn’t even realized that he’d been exposed, that it had come loose (though there were so many times that it could have, really). He turned his head to see where it had gone.

And was promptly flipped onto his back. A small noise of surprise escaped his lips. He was always the one in control, no matter what. In the bed, everything went as he expected and directed, even when he was the one being “dominated.” He knew how the bed scene worked, how to control it to fit his every whim. And yet Sherlock had caught him by surprise.

“It’s on the floor.” Sherlock muttered, a small smile on his face as he watched John’s expression.

“I shouldn’t really be surprised.” John muttered. “Wouldn’t be the first time I was accidentally exposed.”

The corners of Sherlock’s lips twitched, a glimmer of amusement shining in his eyes. “It’s a nice view.”

“Also wouldn’t be the first time I heard that.”

“You’re very confident.” Sherlock leaned forward, tracing his lips along John’s before taking control of a deep kiss. “A bit _too_ confident.”

John grinned into the kiss, laughing lightly. “What can I—oh!” His hips bucked involuntarily. He moaned as he felt Sherlock stroke him, fingertips grazing just over the head. John could feel himself being coaxed hard, having to break away from Sherlock’s lips just to keep his breathing level.

“And very responsive.” Sherlock noted, thumb lightly circling over the head. He smiled as John moaned through pressed lips.

“ _Fuck_.” John gasped, hips moving to match Sherlock’s strokes. “I thought you were a virgin.”

Sherlock gave him a look, removing his hand. “Obviously not.”

With a groan, John rubbed his face. He stared at the roof. He still couldn’t believe that he was here—doing this. If he wanted to do his job, to keep things from going to hell, he’d have to leave. Get up and get away from this. Declare that he had no interest—maybe even hurt Sherlock a bit to keep it from ever happening again. A sharp comment or two would suffice. “You’ve never exactly shown it, you know.”

Sherlock’s weight shifted. He was sitting up. John didn’t bother to look at him to see what he was doing. “Do you really think that I’d allow myself to remain ignorant on _anything_?”

“The solar system, the Prime Minister—“

“Those things have no relevance to the cases or myself.”

“And _this_ does?” John propped himself up on his elbows to look at the other.

Sherlock gave him a look, shutting the drawer of his nightstand. “Despite what people think, I _am_ human. The same impulses.”

“You hardly eat or sleep.”

“Since then I have maintained control from it's ghastly prevalence in my youth.” Sherlock looked down, and John could see his pale cheeks darken slightly in the dim light. “But I did experiment.”

 John nodded slowly, watching as the other picked up a small wrapper from the top of the nightstand. He licked his lips, feeling like _he_ was the bloody virgin (as ridiculous as that was). “Experimented _how_ , exactly?”

Sherlock smirked—that annoying expression that he always wore when he figured something out, when he managed to beat someone. He pressed a kiss to John’s forehead. “You’ll just have to find out.”

He shifted, pressing light kisses to John’s nose, his lips, down his jaw and neck, over his chest. Moving lower and lower until he paused over John’s hipbone.

John watched him closely for a moment, hardly daring to breathe. Sherlock kissed the mark lightly before moving to John’s opposite hip. His thumb circled the initials as he latched to the skin, sucking on it lightly. That feeling, of course, went straight to John’s groin.

Sherlock pulled back, gaze snapping up to John. It was a mark that mirrored the other, larger. It was farily dark on his skin, but not the kind of bruise he was accustomed to getting. It was painless, a mark of . . . sentiment. One that would eventually fade, but that they both knew was there. John felt a smile grow.

Sherlock smiled proudly, head nearly level with John’s as he kneeled on the floor. John hadn’t even paid attention to how he had gotten down there. It was frustrating—he was so used to being aware of everything, and now he could hardly keep grips on more than one thing at a time. Just as he feared he would be weakening Sherlock, it seemed the other was making use of John’s new weakness.

Then, without warning, he slowly took John into his mouth. His teeth and tongue pressed against John’s length—firm, but not hurting him. When Sherlock pulled away, John noticed that Sherlock had put a condom on him.

He blinked, a bit surprised. “You _have_ to teach me that one.”

“Maybe someday.” Sherlock muttered. He paused for only a moment before his tongue ran along the vein, so slowly and with just enough pressure to make John squirm. His lips ran over the head, tongue peeking out and running over it once before taking the entirety into his mouth. 

John’s moans were growing louder with every second, hands weaving into Sherlock’s hair as the other simply swirled his tongue over the sensitive skin. He slowly bobbed, letting his tongue and lips brush along it just enough to drive him mad. Each move was better than the last, making John's head spin. 

He tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hair. He had this before—once or twice. Usually he was the one doing it, the one working to unravel someone else. _Fuck—_ Sherlock was going to turn him into a pile of human jelly. Slowly learning all of John's weaknesses, what felt better and what absolutely drew him mad, pulling every reluctant moan out of John.

John opened his eyes to look down at the other, just for a moment before his head rolled back, hips moving with Sherlock’s mouth as he gasped and moaned.

Sherlock was watching him. Studying. Those perfectly beautiful eyes fixed on John as if he was an important experiement. As if every little twitch and shift mattered and couldn't be missed. He made use of every little thing he learned with each passing second, making John utterly useless. 

John could hardly keep a coherent thought. Thoughts flickered through his mind. The lips around his cock. The slight rumbling of Sherlock's voice at John's moans. That expression on his face. The press of his fingers into John's hips. The warmth pooling deep in his stomach. It trapped John in the moment, making him nothing more than a man getting a fantastic blowjob. And that was better than anything. 

“ _Christ_ , Sherlock.” John moaned, grip tightening in Sherlock’s hair. He was gasping, struggling to keep himself from simply thrusting into that damp heat. His willpower was quickly slipping. 

And then it stopped. John hips twitched in protest, searching for satisfaction. He moved to shift, to see _just_ what he was doing. But Sherlock had moved quickly, crawling onto the bed and pinning down John's hips so he couldn't even use friction for satisfaction. He pinned John to the bed with a bruising kiss, his tongue pushing through the feebble barrier of John's lips and occupying his tongue. John whimpered (a grown man, a trained assassin— _whimpering_ —utterly undignified and completely ridiculous but he found he couldn’t care less). The small noises kept escaping him, more so as Sherlock’s tongue drew them from John's mouth.

“You’re a fucking sadist.” John hissed when the other started chuckling. To be brought so high, _right_ on the edge of his climax, and to thus be deprived was an act of utmost cruelty. Not even Jim bothered (not like Jim was _ever_ that concerned with John’s pleasure).

“You want it to end so soon?” Sherlock asked, quirking an eyebrow.

John swallowed, biting the inside of his cheek. If Sherlock was as good with his cock as he was with his mouth, then John might never be able to form a coherent sentence again. He shook his head.

Sherlock smiled. “Good.”

With a small nod, Sherlock stood, wiggling out of his pants. John took the opportunity to prop himself up a bit, just letting his eyes take in Sherlock’s body. He had seen Sherlock naked so many times before--hell, times when he didn’t even want to--but this was different. Sherlock was baring himself to John, purposeful, just for this. Not because he was being lazy, but so that John could see what was his--what Sherlock was offering to him. And John was taking in as much as he could as quickly as he could. 

With a smirk, Sherlock crawled back onto the bed, shifting John’s legs so that his knees were propped up. John shivered as Sherlock’s fingertips traced along his thighs, cupping his arse and lightly kneading it with his thumb. He watched with fascination as Sherlock pressed a light kiss to his knee, eyes fixed on John even as he rolled a condom onto his own length.

John’s gaze constantly flicked from Sherlock’s intense gaze to the way his fingers moved as they finished putting on the protection. Then as he took the bottle of lube into his hands, his fingers getting coated in the liquid and rubbed them together in an uneccesarily arousing display. 

John eagerly pressed into Sherlock’s lips as the other leaned forward. Desperately needing something to hold onto, his fingers returned to those curls. It was delightful, for some reason or another, that his fingers could just get lost in them. The sounds Sherlock made when John's grip tightened was just an added bonus. 

Sherlock's hand gave a light squeeze on John's rear before moving down the cleft. John moaned as a finger circled his entrance before slowly pushing in. Though the feeling wasn't knew to him, John still found himself moaning as the finger moved around, slowly pushing in and out, touching everywhere. For the sake of his own dignity, he pressed his lips together to stifle his moans. 

“Don’t.” Sherlock warned, voice low.

John froze, looking at Sherlock curiously. 

“I want to hear _everything_.”

John felt himself flush at the inflection in Sherlock's tone, in its demanding nature. After a moment, he let out a small laugh. “Okay.”

Sherlock smiled, finger starting to move again before he slid in another. John winced slightly--it wasn't that it was painful, but it was most certainly a noticeable intrusion. John found himself tensing, fists moving to bunch into the sheets. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, making a small 'humph' as he shifted his fingers.  

And then John found his mind buzzing, more than supplying Sherlock's demanf with a loud and rattling moan. His mind fogged as his back instinctively arched outside of his control. The pleasure washed through him before it sunk into his stomach. It was just a flash, but it was enough. He had to blink to regain his focus, resisting every urge to just give a slight twitch of his hips and get it again. Oh, he could definitely get off on those fingers.

There was just something about those fingers--and the man attached--that was absolutely wonderful. Sherlock’s fingers were thin, and his skill was so unlike those who were more concerned with hurrying to get off than to actually do it properly. There was something methodological about the way Sherlock did this. he worked slowly at first and very slowly built his speed, gently scissoring his fingers and stretching and working John to make him more comfortable. Every so often, when it became too much, he would let the pads of his fingers press against the bundle of nerves or lightly stroke John's obvious arousal. 

John's hips began to roll as the other thrust his fingers in and out of him, getting him used to the motion. He was giving an odd mixture of moans and gasps and whimpers, just utterly falling apart at the coaxing of Sherlock's fingers. This man was going to be his undoing.

Sherlock leaned forward for a kiss, and John eagerly took it. His kiss was desperate, thirsting for more pleasure—for what Sherlock’s fingers simply could not provide.

“Sherlock _please_.” John begged, voice throaty and cracking just at the end.

Sherlock’s lips twitched and he moaned, but it was nothing compared to John’s. John made a loud noise of discontent as the other’s fingers slipped out of him, though he couldn't complain too much about the view of Sherlock slicking himself before lining himself up. John resisted the urge to press himself against Sherlock, to push for what he wanted more than anything right now.

Sherlock’s eyes swept over John’s body, and John could feel himself flush. “ _Please_.” He begged.

Sherlock smiled and nodded, pressing into John. John groaned loudly--there was always a bit of pain from never being prepared perfectly enough, but then there also always was that little spark that would just blossom into pure pleasure. And Sherlock was pushing in at _just_ the perfect speed to make sure it was just the right level. John's head rolled back into the mattress, fingers clenching into the sheets at just how agonizingly pleasurable the speed was.

He was panting, feeling every twitch and motion of Sherlock inside of him. He could feel Sherlock’s fingertips press on his hips, could feel the other flush against him. It was just utterly perfect. 

Sherlock had paused to give John time to adjust, and there was no way he would deny Sherlock for long. He rolled his hips, pressing into the other and moaning at the sheer feeling. His eyes flicked to Sherlock’s, probably giving the most pathetic and pleading look as he whispered the other’s name.

Sherlock eagerly responded, slowly pulling out before pushing in just as slowly. Over and over again, in such a slow rhythm that it was sure to drive John insane. It dragged out every moan from John’s lips, making him gasp with pleasure at each thrust. Making his body move to get the most out of it, but so limited in what he could do that he had to take what Sherlock gave him. 

The speed slowly increased, the strength in each thrust becoming more and more powerful. A thrust hit perfectly—sending a wave of pleasure through John’s body that had him pressing firmer against Sherlock, a buzzing overtaking his mind. A loud moan rattled through his chest, voice cracking just at the end. And then it mercilessly came over and over again, making John shudder and moan and cry out, losing all restraint as the other’s fingers wrapped around his cock, stroking and pumping with the same speed as each thrust.

“Sherlock— _Sherlock please_.” John gasped. It was becoming overwhelming. He hadn’t had this in a very long time, not something so intimate and close that he was coaxed and drawn to his climax, whimpering and moaning and utterly falling apart. He tried to resist it—tried to hold out—but he couldn’t. When he tried to get away from the pleasure of Sherlock’s hand, he merely found Sherlock pressed deeper into him. There was no escape. John cried out loudly as his vision turned white, back arching high and hips thrusting forward as he felt everything pour out of him.    

He panted, hearing and feeling as Sherlock came not far behind--Sherlock had been holding out. He smiled, staring at the roof as Sherlock as the other rolled to the side beside him. He lazily removed the condoms, tossing them to a nearby waste bin and magnifently avoiding making a mess. 

“You utter bastard.” He whispered, grinning like an idiot as he turned his head to face the other.

Sherlock glanced over at him, body still slightly flushed, short breaths making the sweat on his chest glimmer in the limited light, smiling like he had just solved a ‘9’ case.

Oh, John was so fucked.

 

John yawned, shifting in the bed, cold because he was half-covered by the sheet. The light was shining in the room, meaning he had slept in far too late. How he had even allowed this was beyond him. His internal alarm was better than that.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand, only to find a complete absence of it. Just the wood of the furniture. A few centimeters higher than he remembered. And not quite the right texture.

He sat upright in his bed. No, it wasn’t his bed. Wrong texture, wrong location of furniture. Clothes strewn about that weren’t his. Because this wasn’t his room—it was Sherlock’s.

His body tensed as it came back to him. He slept with Sherlock. _The_ Sherlock Holmes. The man who he was in charge of protecting, who he was supposed to keep safe until he was cultivated enough to be a proper challenge for Moriarty. And John _slept_ with him.

Sherlock had been skilled. Just the right balance of rough and gentle, demanding and patient. Everything John had ever wanted in a lover, stuck in a person who was certainly asexual. Stuck in a man who John wasn’t even supposed to get close to, else he compromise everything. Or so John thought. If there was a God up there, He was probably laughing his ass off right now.

He fell back onto the bed. Sherlock was good. Very, very good. He had probably spent all of his university years practicing, learning everything about the human body and its reactions. But it wasn't just that--there had been something sentimental there. It wasn't just a simple shag, a way to relieve tension, but meant for pleasure. It was meant to show everything appealing and wonderful. To tease everything out of him. To have sensuality at its finest.

That kind of thing meant that Sherlock had emotional attachments before. And his distancing now, from normal contacts and attachments, meant that something had happened. It was entirely likely that Sherlock had always been emotionally distant, even separated from those kinds of things. But that didn’t really seem to match with what John had just experienced. John vaguely wondered what that meant for him.

He rolled onto his stomach, burying his face into the pillow. No matter what happened, Sherlock _definitely_ didn’t lose his touch. There was only one other time that John actually enjoyed himself in bed. And that thought definitely didn’t bode well.

Maybe it was just a one-time thing. Something that, when John left this room, wouldn’t be recognized at all. Maybe Sherlock had forgotten the moment he left, off to do some case. Using John for some experiment on intimacy between flatmates, or to check his libido still happened to exist. John could go out there and nothing would change. Though that would be much better for the job, John wasn’t entirely certain as to how he felt about that.

But lying around wouldn’t change anything. It was what it was, and he would have to face the day. Besides, if he lay around in Sherlock’s room all day, it was fairly certain that the other would come in and make sure he was breathing. And _that_ would be beyond ridiculous.

He sat up, noticing a neat stack of clothing resting by the door--clothes from his room. Which meant that Sherlock had rifled through his drawers to find clothes while John slept, and put them here so he wouldn’t have to walk out in nothing but a towel. Lord, if there was a client out there and he came out in a towel—well, it would be a considerably awkward situation. One that would have word spread, put in an article somewhere, and then Jim would know.

John froze as he had his trousers halfway on. What _if_ Jim knew? Jim somehow always knew everything, things that had no trace of evidence, things that John was hardly aware of. Nothing that John tried to hide ever escaped Jim's gaze. Somehow, he would know about this. Somehow, he would know that John had defied his orders.

He ran his fingers through his hair. There was no point in prolonging the inevitable. If Jim knew, there was only one thing he would do right now.

John finished getting dressed, going out into the living room. Sherlock was perched on the couch in his trademark thinking position. He didn’t register John’s entrance at all (how bad had it gotten that John could tell from the small little tells whether or not Sherlock knew he was there?). But that was good. It would give him some time to check. Some time to reinforce or dissuade his fears.

He opened his laptop, logging into the blog. If Jim knew, he would give one hint and one hint alone. A small message to tell John how utterly fucked he was.

But there was nothing. No new messages, no small comments, nothing. Jim didn’t know. How could he? The room wasn’t bugged, there was no way for anyone to know. They were, for now, safe. John breathed a sigh of relief.

“I believe the exertion and rest has made my mind more effective.” Sherlock commented, voice low.

“Hm?” John glanced over at the other. Sherlock wasn’t even looking at him. John vaguely wondered how many times he had said that to the open air before John even noticed.

Sherlock turned his head, an intriguing expression on his face. “Its speed has notably increased. I think a fair conclusion would be to say that it was a result of last night’s activities.”

John shut the laptop, getting up and making himself a cuppa. Sherlock had left water boiling on the stove. He was good. “How do you figure that?”

“In the three hours between waking up and now, I’ve solved two cases.”

John looked at him. That was actually impressive, even for Sherlock, and since John highly doubted he had moved from that spot. “Fours?”

“Fives.” Sherlock corrected. “Lestrade had sent them and the information days ago.”

“I’m sure he’s thrilled you decided to solve them _now_.”

“He’s thankful that they were handled.” Sherlock said bluntly. He reached out as John reentered the room, and John handed him the second mug of tea he had made. “I think we should do it more often, particularly on difficult cases.”

John choked on his tea, coughing and trying to breathe. That certainly had caught him off guard.

“You don’t like the idea.” He could practically _hear_ the pout in Sherlock’s voice.

“I-it’s not that.” John tried to reassure him. “But it’s, well, surprising. I mean, isn’t it a distraction or something?”

“It is.” Sherlock sat there for a moment, considering it. “Thinking about it is distracting. But the follow-through has proven to be very effective. In a scientific standpoint, it would probably take more trials to be sure.”

John wanted to say no. The more they did it, the more signs available that he was going against his job. If he kept going, perhaps there would be an obvious change. Something would happen—something that John didn’t want to see. If he said no now, he would be saving the both of them from Jim’s wrath. He would be extending their lives. If he gave in, however, he would actually be able to reach a happiness that he thought was long gone.

“Well?” Sherlock looked at him expectantly.

John shrugged, falling into his seat. “What the hell. Fine.” He looked over at the other for a moment, a small smile on his face. “If you're going out today, you may want to wear your scarf.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was originally going to be six chapters, but it started getting a bit lengthy. So it's been split into two. If you want this fic to stay peaceful and nice, then I would suggest ending here. If not, the next chapter will have sadness, torment, and possible character death. If that worries you, stick to this one and pretend they live happily ever after. 
> 
> As usual, comments and stuff are appreciated. It kind of encourages me to do these chapters faster.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big Note: Major Character Death here. So for those of you who don’t like that, I would like to introduce you to an alternative ideal situation where John and Sherlock have happy lives that follows more like the series except Sherlock takes John everywhere because he loves his assassin. And they kill all the baddies. The end. For those who don’t mind tragedy, carry on. 
> 
> Smaller Note: So I’m an idiot and thought that the Bristol Swimming Pool (the pool for the Great Game) had pillars on the sides that were big and colored, weird-looking from the angle. It was only when I checked after writing that I learned that they weren’t. Instead of pillars they’re weird curtainy pathways (probably changing rooms or something). So . . . suspend disbelief here and just humor me?

It was funny, how domestic the two were becoming. Well, at least relatively. Cases here and there--Sherlock becoming absolutely petulant when there was a gap even close to a day long. John made several attempts to get the other to eat and sleep on those days, but it was usually to no avail. Every so often, John would have even _his_ desensitivity overrun--typically with a head in the fridge, toes in a jam jar, or pickled eyeballs. Simple things like that to get his senses kick-started and his heart pumping again. Funny how things like that could startle him.  
He wasn’t really sure how he felt about being so normal. About going out and getting the milk, or loving nothing more than to spend the night in Sherlock's arms. Of the one that he wouldn’t have to kill.

Sure, eventually Moriarty would get to him, and Sherlock would probably die there. But, for a least a little while, John could pretend he was normal. When he wasn’t help chase down murders, at least.  
He didn’t spend many nights with Sherlock, at least not as many as he would like. The first reason was that the case always came first. The case would come and go—it’s potential for being solved diminishing with the time wasted and its availability reducing exponentially. John, however, would always be there.

When a case was finished, Sherlock would slide into John’s bed (sometimes in the wee hours of the morning, depending on when he finished) and spend the next hour just slowly pulling John apart and fully exerting himself. Of course, this usually resulted in them sleeping in halfway through the next day, their limbs entwined.  
It was paradise. For a man who spent the entirety of his life doing something—going after someone, exerting himself to the limit—this was peaceful.

John was still active—joining Sherlock on cases and keeping him out of trouble—but it didn't provide the same sort of emptiness that he had been dealing with for years. Because he had Sherlock. Sherlock who, no matter what happened, would nuzzle close, stretch out and press every inch of his body to John’s. Practically purr when he was touched, or when fingers brushed through his hair. Who would get that sly grin when he came up with something interesting. God, when he had those little moments in the middle of the night, John knew he would be pleasantly sore for a day. 

Sherlock was his weakness, and he was terribly aware of it. 

 

The phone rang in the middle of the night, long after he and Sherlock had fallen asleep. Even though it had been silent for weeks, John kept it on the nightstand by his side of the bed. Missing a message could easily be the death of them. Though calls were rare—what was needed was encoded into texts, and anything else was left as sporadic messages. But even those were few, diminished into the simple messages that Jim left on the blog.  
Groaning, he untangled himself from Sherlock’s arms and picked up the phone, getting out of bed. He glanced back at Sherlock, still sound asleep. He hadn’t slept for days, trying to deal with Jim’s recent bomb threats. Now, when it seemed that they were paused momentarily (Jim probably aware of Sherlock’s bodily needs), did it seem like Sherlock had the time to sleep. Soon enough, John knew that it would be less.

Jim was challenging him, seeing how far Sherlock could go until he lost. And, even though an elderly woman died, Sherlock hadn’t technically lost yet. That was her fault, not his, and Jim wouldn’t count that. Until Sherlock properly lost, Jim would keep pushing. Which meant Sherlock needed as much rest as he could get. And which left John absolutely bewildered at why he would be called.

But it didn’t matter. If he didn’t answer, they were both dead. He slowly snuck out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He moved into the kitchen, leaning on the counter.

“Yes?” He asked, answering the phone.

“It’s been a while, John.” There was a darkness in Sebastian’s voice, something that sent a chill down John’s spine.

“You never call this late.” John said, leaning on the counter, trying to keep his tone light-hearted.

“It’s important.”

“To call at . . . two in the morning?”

“John, be serious.” There was a silence, a pause. “This needs to end.”

John froze. His fingers gripping tightly to the phone.

“John?”

“I’m listening.”

“Jim’s gotten bored. Sherlock’s,” a hum, as Sebastian considered the proper word, “not up to par.”

Real names. Precise speaking. No code, no anything. John shivered as he realized what that meant. The game, the act, was ending. No forewarning, no sign. Just a call in the dark, a simple order. Everything John had clung to was crumbling in his hands. He swallowed down the bile building in his throat.

“You know what that means.”

“He’s done everything he’s supposed to. So have I.” John coughed, trying to keep himself from sounding desperate. He had to remind himself to keep his voice to a whisper, listening carefully for the sound of the door. “My job was to keep him safe, not kill him.”

“Your job was to keep him safe until Jim got bored. He’s done with Sherlock, John. There’s nothing else to get from him, here. You know that.”

“I—“

“John. Listen to me. He knows. Jim knows everything. He . . . praised your act at the hospital. Pretending you didn’t know him and all that. But you’ve never been able to lie to him. No one has. He won’t risk . . . sentiment interfering with things."

John couldn't think of how to respond.

After a moment, there was a sigh. “You kill Sherlock, and he’ll probably let you live. You don’t, and he’ll kill the both of you.”

“You don’t know that.” John said shortly.

“No.” Silence on the other side for a minute. “I know that Sherlock challenged Jim approximately four hours ago. Offering the data stick—but we know better, don’t we?”

John cursed under his breath. Stupid, stupid. He knew he should have stayed awake with Sherlock, preventing him from doing this. He knew how such a thing would end. It wasn’t intelligent, it wasn’t going to accomplish anything. Only irritate Jim and make Sherlock incredibly disposable. He felt ill.

“Sherlock’s getting in the way, John, you know that. If you don’t kill him tonight, he’ll die tomorrow. And you’ll be punished, heavily, if you even get to live. This is for the best.”

John closed his eyes, everything becoming numb. “I know.”

“Good.” 

John sat there for a moment, just staring at his phone as the call was disconnected. This had to be a dream—a nightmare. But it was real. He knew it was. No matter how much he didn’t want to admit it, nothing would change that. He had orders to kill Sherlock. And, no matter what he chose, Sherlock would die.

No one could stop Jim. His will, his web, his wisdom was too much. No one could ever beat that—not even Sherlock Holmes. John's choice was simple: whether he killed Sherlock by his own hands and returned to work, or witness Sherlock’s death at the hands of another, and possibly didn’t survive it himself. Which was he more willing to endure?

Swallowing, he reached into a drawer in the kitchen. He removed the utensils from the drawer and pulled out the bottom, grabbing his gun. It wasn't the one that Sherlock knew of, covered in dust, abandoned to a fate of disuse. It the one he used on his targets. It was the one meant to kill, not to protect. He didn’t expect to use it again. He was very wrong.

He cocked it where he stood, making sure it was ready. One shot was all he would have. He didn’t have the strength for more than that. At least, not to fire against Sherlock. The urge to use it on himself was incredibly tempting.

Tiptoeing through the kitchen and small hall, he peeked into their room. Sherlock’s back was facing him, half-covered by the blanket. His skin so pale, so innocent-looking. A single dark mark in the middle from John, adoringly placed there a day before. Sherlock’s hair shone, even in the limited light. Giving John the proper target.

“Unusual calling hour.” Sherlock noted, his voice a soft mumble.

“Just a mate of mine.” John said softly, holding the gun behind his back as he walked toward the bed. “Wasted to hell. Wanted a ride home. Told him to bugger off and take a cab.”

Sherlock mumbled something incoherent, and John was silent as he waited for the other to settle down. With a shaky breath, he raised the gun, slowly moving it closer to Sherlock’s head. He had to make this count—had to make it so that Sherlock died instantaneously. He wouldn’t make him suffer through this.

He just had to pull the trigger.

He just had to end this.

End all of this.

End Sherlock.

“Your boss, not your mate.” Sherlock’s voice was low, every word carefully spoken. Kept from being jarring, just smoothly between each part.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock slowly turned over, facing John. The barrel was in the middle of his forehead; his eyes were fixed on John. There wasn’t any emotion in them, just the cool calculation he had when he was looking over evidence for a case. It sent a chill up his spine.

“Trembling. Result of being caught. Nerves? No. Can’t be.Twenty-six hits under your belt—no, twenty seven. You should have adjusted by now. Guilt. Body reacting as if it’s your first kill. Considering the fact that you don’t seem to notice it and adjust yourself automatically, it’s fair to conclude that you have this reaction with every kill. The hesitation now suggests that this is the first time your victim has caught you.”

John’s lips twitched. Sherlock was being so blunt with this. “You knew from the start.”

“Don’t be stupid, John.” Said the idiot insulting the man with a gun. “I knew from the first day we met.”

John straightened, his finger still on the trigger. He had to shoot, he knew that. If he didn’t soon, Sherlock would do something. Make a daring escape. Or convince him to lower his weapon and get the upper hand.

“You’re wrong, Sherlock.”

Sherlock tilted his head, blinking a bit as he registered John’s words. His face twisted as he tried to figure it out.

“You aren’t the first to wake when I was about to kill him.”

“I can’t imagine he lived long.” Sherlock stated bluntly. “Your willpower dwindles exponentially the more time you waste.”

John’s eye twitched, jaw clenching. “You aren’t going to beg for your life?”

“I don’t grovel.” Sherlock said simply, sneering at the thought.

“You’re ready to die, then.”

“There’s a thrill to this game, John.” Sherlock said, slowly sitting up on the bed and crossing his legs in front of him. “It’s exhilarating, not knowing whether the weapon at your side will save or kill you. Estimating the probability as we spend more time together, calculating if this “next step” is a sign of your determination to kill me or a means to weaken your determination.”

“So it was an experiment for you?” John felt a bit of anger swell, tugging at his restraint. 

_“Is._ I’ve yet to determine if you’ll kill me or not.”

“This whole thing—just a game?”

“Wasn’t it to you?”

John felt his breath catch in his throat as the other eyes him carefully.

Originally, it had been. He was just pretending to be Sherlock’s friend, to keep him alive so Jim could have his fun. But that had changed. Slowly, Sherlock had become more precious to him. Sherlock had become the most valuable thing in the world. Maybe even more valuable than his own life.

But to be played by Sherlock, this whole time—this whole thing was just a means of controlling the game, of making it more interesting for him. God, he was so like Jim. And John could never kill Jim . . . but Sherlock, perhaps. Sherlock didn’t have the connections. John would be able to leave alive. He would get vengeance on what was done to him, and he would be able to move on. To never feel again. It was so simple. . . and so impossible.  

“You’ll die soon enough.” John said shortly, turning to slowly walk toward his fate. “But not by me.” Leaving the safety off, John left his gun down on the nightstand.

There was a long pause. “You won’t kill me?”

“That’s what I said.” If Sherlock didn’t shoot—and he was such a coward at times—then John would have to report to Jim. His cover had been blown, so he would be punished. But then he would be right back where he belonged. And that was fine.

“You’re leaving?” There was a small hitch in Sherlock’s voice. Finally, something that wasn’t flat and emotionless.

“Unless you shoot me in the back.” John said mildly. “I can turn around if you’d like. If it makes it easier. Otherwise, I’m going to go back to my boss.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

“The best way, then, would be to shoot.”

“That isn’t what I mean.”

He paused, mind working. Trying to find what other way. If he was shot here, then Sherlock’s secrets, habits, and weaknesses would be safe. If he wasn’t, then Jim was going to know everything and find some clever way to eliminate Sherlock. There weren’t any other options.

“John.”

John turned quickly on his heels to glare at the other. “What, Sherl—“ He found his lips claimed by the other, an arm wrapped around his waist to hold him close. He instinctively pressed into it for just a moment before pushing away. “What the _hell?”_

Sherlock didn’t budge, holding the other close as his eyes slowly opened. Gaze piercing in the dark, watching John’s every movement and holding him even closer. “I will _not_ let you leave.”

John felt himself twitch with anger. “Your experiment has come to an end.”

“So it has.” Sherlock said smoothly. His eyes flicked over John’s expression, corner of his lips turned up into a smirk. “And the conclusions were satisfying.”

“Let me go or I’ll break your arm.”

“I know where our relationship stands with you.”

John froze. His resistance quickly stopped, his eyes carefully searching the other’s face for any slip. Any sign that this was a joke. But he had none.

“Initially, it was to see what power I had against an assassin. To see if I was capable of creating a friendship quickly enough to enable the sparing of my life. And to experience the thrill in the potential of having a bullet in the back of my skull at any moment.” He sighed. “But that changed. You became too . . . amiable. Too much of what I wanted for myself, someone I didn’t want to share. I suppose it fits as love, despite how droll _that_ idea is. It then became an experiment to see if I could get you to return the sentiment, and perhaps to make it strong enough to deny your job. I’d say it was a success.”

John blinked. “Your experiment . . . was to . . . get me to love you so I wouldn’t kill you? Because you . . .”

“Love you. Yes. Do catch up.”

John resisted the urge to pull him down and snog him properly. This was wrong. Assassins weren’t supposed to have people who loved them. Sure, people they slept with, but not love. 

“You can’t.”

Sherlock looked offended. “And why not?”

“I’m an assassin. Working for a man who wants you dead. If I don’t kill you, he will. I can’t . . .” He wanted to stop it. There had to be a way to stop it and escape. To find a place for Sherlock to be safe. He was not going to kill another person who loved him. Nor would he be responsible for their death. Not again.

“I have an assassin who loves me. What could possibly go wrong?”

_“How_ can you be so calm about this?”

“I have faith in my blogger bodyguard.”

John opened his mouth and closed it. He knew how Jim’s system worked, and what to do. He was one of the best, good enough to be Jim’s go-to when it wasn’t Sebastian. If he played his cards right, they could get away from all this and they could win. “I am going to snog you breathless. Right now.”

Sherlock smiled. “I hoped you would.”

 

John woke up slowly, entangled in the other’s arms. He yawned and rolled onto his other side, shoulder aching a bit for lying on it too long. Sherlock made a noise of discontent, but merely shifted so an arm wrapped around John’s waist, while the other made a perfectly lovely pillow.

Sighing, he opened his eyes and looked into the room. His gun rested on the nightstand, still with the safety off and ready to fire. So it had been real. He sighed, wishing it all had just been a terrible dream. That he could have been able to live in this perfect domesticity for a while longer.

Sherlock’s grip tightened a bit and he brushed his nose along the line of John’s neck and shoulder. John glanced back at him, smiling softly as fingertips trailed up his torso.

“We should stay in bed all day.” Sherlock mumbled, voice heavy with sleep.

“We really shouldn’t.” John replied, shifting to sit up in bed and ignoring the other’s complaints. He reached for his phone, looking to check the notifications.

_I’m waiting for your report. JM_

John swallowed. If he didn’t go, it was entirely possible that Jim would send people to find them. Two or three people he might be able to handle, depending on the situation. But Jim knew his skills, and he knew what would be just enough to win. Even if Sherlock wasn’t perfectly predictable, Jim would be prepared.

He rubbed his face, looking down at the other before playing with his curls. Sherlock had managed to hug his thigh, burying his face in the warmth. Eventually he would wake up—either when the bed started to get cold or he was forcibly dragged out of it.

“I’m going to get breakfast.” John said softly. “Need to head to the market first, though. All we have is your experiments.”

Sherlock made a small noise before shifting his head to look at the other. “You shouldn’t go.”

“I’ll be fine.” John lied.

“I’ll go with you.”

“No.” John kept his voice firm, hand pausing in its caress. “At the moment, they think you’re either dead or dying. The order is out on your to see you dead. I don’t want you outside. Or near a window. Or anything. Not till I come back. Do you understand?”

Sherlock snorted.

“Sherlock, I need your word. You can’t leave. Please.”

Sherlock looked at the other for a while before giving a small nod. “I won’t leave.”

 

John walked into the pool area. He knew Jim would be here, probably expecting to draw Sherlock out with the whole game, should John fail. Or, maybe he expected this failure all along—and this was just a step to figure out what Sherlock was made out of. That thought wasn’t much more of a comfort. There was a locker room in the back, an area that they had used once or twice to take care of some business. Tiled floors were a lot easier to get blood out of, after all, and no one would be surprised to find blood in a men’s locker room.

“John. So nice of you to join us again.” Jim’s voice was silky as ever, sitting in a wooden chair as if it were a throne of gold.

“Did you do it?” Sebastian asked, leaning against the lockers.

John hesitated. He had never gotten away with lying before, and to get caught now would endanger more lives than just his. “No.”

Sebastian held his head in his hand, shaking it. Jim simply narrowed his eyes, making no movement at all. And that was more frightening than anything.  
“He managed to . . . avoid my attempt.” John said carefully. “I think—I think it’s too early to kill him.”

“Is that so?” Jim tilted his head, still utterly expressionless.

“He’s smart. A bit late to catch onto things, but wise enough to know how to get out. I think there’s still a chance to have some of your fun with him.”

Jim’s eyes flashed, and John flinched. “Oh, yes, Johnny boy. I think you’re right.”

 

“This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?” John asked, walking out into the open. Sherlock had been looking around, looking everywhere but where he should. Up high above, Sebastian was watching. With an unspecified amount of others, who were all going to enjoy this far too much. Jim was waiting for his dramatic entrance, and John had to play this right.

Sherlock slowly lowered the flash drive in his hands. He didn’t know then. He didn’t know that John was working for the one playing the game. A small shift, but enough. Visible enough in his expression as he slowly turned and made a timid step toward John. “John. What the hell . . .?”

John held his chin high, hands buried deep in his pockets, clenched into fists. “Bet you never saw this coming.”

Then Sherlock’s expression changed. Hurt, lost. It wasn’t that he thought John worked for ‘Moriarty’—but that he _was_ ‘Moriarty.’ He had to be playing the hundred scenes in his mind. Funnily enough, John could have fit it perfectly—he could have been the one to end so many lives. Perhaps this would make a better ending, though. To see John as an enemy might give him a means of actually working for his own self-preservation.

John kept his expression blank. He had to play this right. Sebastian was watching. Jim was watching. If he showed any sign that something was different, then they were both dead. For now, Sherlock could think what he wanted. Sherlock should leave.

“Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket . . .” John closed his eyes as he heard the other’s steps as he entered, heels clicking slightly on the tile, “or are you just happy to see me?”

Sherlock reached into his pocket, pulling out John’s gun and aiming it at the intruder. “Both.” His attention turned between John and Jim, his mind working. John struggled to keep his expression flat.

“Jim Moriarty. Hi!” Jim said lightly, continuing to walk closer. His voice had that tone to it that he wore before he tore people to shreds, before he was going to delightfully play with his prey before consuming it completely.

Sherlock’s attention moved between John and Jim again. God, it was taking him far too long to piece it together. John was almost insulted—mostly overcome by the fear that his words weren’t going to be enough to convince Jim. Especially not with the way that Sherlock was acting.

“I’ve given you a glimpse—just a little taste—of what I have in my power, Sherlock.” Jim said, smiling and standing beside John. John kept still, jaw clenching slightly. “I’m a specialist, you see.”

Sherlock mused it over. “A consulting criminal. Brilliant.”

“Isn’t it?” Jim smiled gleefully. “And no one’s able to get to me.”

“I did.” Sherlock said, holding the gun pointedly. John internally grimaced at his stupidity.

“No, no.” Jim hummed, fixing his suit lightly. “See, I gave you a glimpse. I showed you what I can do, what I’m capable of.”

“A test.”

“Oh, yes. And you failed, Sherly.” Jim draped an arm around John’s shoulder, the other snaking around his waist. “You failed badly.”

Sherlock blinked, staring at Jim and slowly starting to register. John stayed perfectly still, not wanting to move. Not wanting to ruin anything. They were getting closer and closer to the tipping point, and soon they would lose.

“See, all those fun things, all my clients and—gosh—all that money, just distractions, dear. I infiltrated everything, even your little personal life. And it was so easy.” Jim’s hand slowly moved to rest over John’s groin, rubbing ever so lightly and enjoying Sherlock’s gaze. John trembled, unable to resist the reaction. “Well, you did mess my toy up a bit. You’re supposed to return them in the condition you got them in, you know. But that’s no matter. It’ll take _forever,_ but I can fix him.”

John looked at Jim in the corner of his eye, who didn’t notice because he was so focused on tormenting Sherlock. God, no, he wouldn’t go back to that.

“You’re weak, Sherlock. Just like the rest of them.” Jim rolled his eyes. “Just a flash of danger and you go to the first sentiment that lights your fancy. And of course it’s the perfect little soldier who risks his neck to save you. _Bo~ring_.”

John closed his eyes. There wasn’t any getting away. Jim had made up his mind, prepared for any of this. Perhaps John would escape alive, if Sherlock were to die. There was little chance that Sherlock would get away, anyway. With a sigh, John reached into the waistband along his back, pulling out his gun and aiming it at Sherlock. “Allow me the honors?” He asked, a slight lilt in his voice as his eyes firmly met Sherlock’s.

Jim smiled, giving a praising rub that John resisted the urge to cringe at. “Of course, darling, you endured this for so long.”

“Damn right I did.” John growled, before turning and sending a bullet up through Jim’s jaw. He shoved Jim’s body away from him--a corpse now--before grabbing Sherlock’s arm and pulling them both behind a nearby pillar to escape the sudden gunfire.

His heartbeat was thrumming in his ears, and he had to take deep breaths to get himself level. There were at least three, he knew, and all of them were skilled. They had only missed by the means of surprise--and there was no way he could guarantee a repeat of that.

“That . . . that was good.” Sherlock said, peeking past the barrier and barely dodging a bullet. He leaned against the pillar, closing his eyes. “That thing you did.”

“It’s currently getting us shot at.” John said, voice devoid of emotion. His mind was working, trying to chart out possible escapes. They were pinned here, saved only by the way the building had been designed. If they tried to go for the doors, they would probably be killed. Maybe they would be able to dodge a bullet or two, but not a whole barrage.

“Moriarty is dead.” Sherlock said, looking at the gun in his hands. He was trembling, just slightly. “Compared to what he could have done, I think this is worth it.”

John paused, looking down and counting how many bullets he had left. Enough, if he did it right. If he didn’t, they’d be stuck here until the snipers decided to move and pin them in and kill them. If it came to that point, John realized he could save a bullet and leave it for Sherlock. Work as a shield to increase his chances of survival. It could work.

There was a long moment of silence before Sherlock spoke up. “Are you afraid of dying?”

“No.” John said softly. There were so many times he would have embraced it; his job was a constant dance with death that welcomed the opportunity to die. Then again, he had let himself become so good at his job that it was impossible—if he wanted to die, then he could have messed up. He could have chosen to die at any time. But he didn’t. “Maybe a little.” He admitted softly. “You?”

“Just a bit.” Sherlock said, shrugging it off as easily as one might say that a mosquito bite was annoying. A small smile played on his lips. “After all, I fell for an assassin. Can’t do that while being afraid of death.”

“You knew I’d never kill you.” John said, putting on a fake smile before shooting at one of the snipers. The splatter on the wall behind was enough of a signifier. One down.

“True.” Sherlock looked at the gun in his hands, checking how many bullets were in it. John glanced over, watching for a bit. So they had some extra. That might do him good if he messed up.

“It’s very likely we won’t get out of here alive.” John said softly. He moved and shot again, but it was a clear miss. He felt the bullets pass by him, nearly hitting. He leaned against the pillar, trying to catch his breath.

“I know.” Sherlock replied softly. He gave a small smile. “Could be worse.”

“How could it possibly be worse?”

“You could have rejoined him.” His face turned in disgust. "Repulsive man. Touching you."

“You can fix that later.” John said plainly, leaning out and shooting, hitting one.  
As he hid from the fire, he realized that there were more shots fired than there should have been. Were there reinforcements? If there were more, then they were screwed. Be easier to just off themselves.

Sherlock hissed, back and head pressed against the pillar. “Dammit.” He said, voice a bit of a gasp. His trembling worsened, quickly turning pale. With a quick look back at the snipers, John looked at his partner.

He tensed, body feeling ice cold. This was wrong. He knew that something might happen, but not this bad. Not like this. He shook his head to focus himself, looking down at the other.

“Idiot.” He growled, pulling away Sherlock’s jacket a bit to reveal the wound. Gunshot under the collarbone, didn’t go all the way through. He tore at his clothes, bunching the cloth up and pressing it against the wound. “Sorry,” he whispered hastily as the other cried out. “Hold this here.”

He peeked around the pillar, shooting again. Hit his target. He needed to be done quickly, get Sherlock to a hospital. There was still a chance he could survive this. He concentrated all his efforts into ending them, having to resort to Sherlock’s gun to help.

 

Soon enough, it became quiet. The assassins were dead, or else they had fled. It didn’t matter. 

He knelt down next to the other, his hand brushing over Sherlock’s forehead. He was getting cold, face covered in sweat and panting at irregular intervals. He was pale—too pale. The blood had seeped through the cloth, not working at all to clot the wound. John was losing him, and there was nothing he could do.

“Stay with me Sherlock.” He said, voice a weak plea. “We can get you to a hospital. Get you home.”

Sherlock glanced up at him, eyes focusing on him and occasionally looking too far off. The blood loss was having its effects already. “Doctor or not,” Sherlock said, between short breaths, “we know better.”

John closed his eyes, giving a small nod. He cupped the other’s cheek, keeping on a strong face. He had seen enough deaths. He knew how it looked, what would happen. And he had lost someone he loved before. But never Sherlock Holmes. After everything, he was going to lose what he had been fighting for.

“John.” Sherlock reached up a shaky hand to John’s face, cupping his cheek gently. He was shivering—half from pain, John assumed, and half from fear. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” John said, pressing lightly into the touch. “I just got you. And we could have . . . we could have . . .”

“Don’t be dramatic.” Sherlock said softly, the corners of his lips twitching up into a sad semblance of a smile. “You’ll be okay.”

John could feel his control slipping. “I . . . I . . .”

With a small chuckle, Sherlock lightly pulled the other into a kiss. Soft and gentle—the chaste press of lips together. “I know.” He said gently, voice getting softer. “I do, too.”

In that moment, John felt his control slip from him and he started to sob. He pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s, seeking the welcoming heat and comfort. Sherlock’s hand nearly slid from John’s cheek, but John held it there. Clinging to it with both of his hands, he brought it to his lips, unable to stop. He had lost him. The one person he had left in the world to care about, the one who he could rely on—who knew what he was and accepted him and understood him. And he was gone. Because John hadn’t been enough. Because he had failed.

There was the click of a safety being released behind his head, but he paid it no mind. He had missed one, and that was okay. He didn’t have a reason to live. Soon enough, he wouldn’t have to live without Sherlock.

“Oh. Holmes died.” Sebastian’s tone was flat, a slight mocking edge riding nearly undetectable on his words. “That’s sad. Appropriate, but sad. You liked him.”

“Just pull the fucking trigger.”

“Why would I do that? Because you killed the leader of our precious web? Because you managed to take out four of my best snipers? Naw, I’m not so merciful as to seek _that_ kind of revenge.” The barrel of the gun was pressed against the back of John’s head, forcefully enough to hurt. “See, I liked Jim. And I liked you. And I would have thought that you’d at least appreciate what we did for you. Bloody ungrateful, you are.”

John left out a sharp laugh and turned to glare at the other, taunting him. “As if. I wanted to die.”

“I know.” A cruel smile grew on Sebastian’s face. “And that’s why I won’t kill you. You’ll have to suffer, mate.”

John swallowed, watching him. It didn’t matter if Moran killed him or not. He’d do it. He couldn’t live alone. Not again.

“Ah, ah, ah. None of that killing yourself thing. See, I'm not going to let you off that easy. One, you’re a coward. We both know that much. Second, I’ll still be working. And it’d be an _awful_ shame if your dear sweet Sherlock died for nothing. God, to think that the organization he fought to overcome was thriving more than ever after his death—when he thought Jim would be the end.”

John nearly felt like collapsing. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t let Sherlock die for nothing. He’d never be forgiven. “Why . . .?”

Sebastian smiled, sending ice through John’s spine. “Because I _can.”_

As he turned to leave, John picked up his gun and fired. But instead of the explosion, just clicks. Empty. Sebastian laughed.

 

John spent the remainder of his life working to destroy the web, piece by piece. So familiar with it, he started small, and he continued to destroy. Worked to make it eat at itself, to corrupt and fall apart. He didn’t bother with rest. He didn’t return to Baker Street. He was hardly ever in London. When a target was there, he waited for them to move. He couldn’t be there.  
It was the only thing keeping him alive. Trying to get to Sebastian, saving him for last. When he was gone, then John could rest. Then maybe he could return to the sense of home. Maybe he could return to the feeling of being human. Until then, he would not allow it. He survived, only for Sherlock’s sake. He fought, for Sherlock’s sake.

  
They say he comes in the dead of night. They say that he knows when you are most vulnerable. They say he can see everything from one glance—your strengths and weaknesses. They say that, just before you die, you can see a ratted blue scarf hang on his neck, pieces stained by the blood of those he killed. They say it’s the blood of his lover, so he can never forget. They say that he won’t stop until everything crumbles. They say . . .

Well, who cares what they say? It’s a bit silly to think that anyone actually lived long enough to say much of anything, really.


End file.
